


A Presumption of Functionality (A Gas-Light Romance)

by sunsetmog



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Dirigibles, Espionage, First Kiss, Hedgehog - Freeform, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Regency, Romance, Steam clock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a spy brings news that an old inventor might have the key to finally bringing the war with Napoleon to an end, Spencer Smith, Officer of His Majesty's War Office, is dispatched north to discover if there's anything to these tales of dirigibles and flying-craft. Instead of flying-craft, however, he finds a unusual, dilapidated house – and instead of an old inventor, he finds Brendon Urie, complete with his pet hedgehog. With Brendon's scientist grandfather missing, Spencer is left trying to protect Brendon, rescue his grandfather and ensure that the secrets of flying-craft remain out of enemy hands.</p><p>Vaguely steampunk-y AU in which the Napoleonic Wars didn't end with the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, but instead carried on well into the next decade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Presumption of Functionality (A Gas-Light Romance)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by reni_days and elucreh. Further thanks to kraken_wakes, wildestranger, and boweryd for reading and advising at various points along the way. Special thanks to harriet_vane for telling me about the pretty awful book she was reading in the first place, and suggesting that I re-tell it with Brendon and Spencer.
> 
> This is based loosely on _Midsummer Moon_ by Laura Kinsale. Loosely, because I only read the first 65 pages.
> 
> Written for bandombigbang 2010.
> 
> Bonus features: [art](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/50768.html) by clarityhiding / [art](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/51175.html) by aredblush / [fanmix](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/51353.html) by cmonkatiekatie.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/50492.html) on 10th June 2010.

  
_  
**A Presumption of Functionality  
(A gas-light romance)**   
_

~*~

The inscription on the glass panel above the door read, _Mrs. Engleby's Coffee House_. Outside it was a cold and rainy winter afternoon, but inside it was dry enough, even though it was far from warm. He'd chosen the table closest to the miserable fire, in the vain hope of drying off while he waited, but Spencer Smith, Officer of His Majesty's War Office, thought he had managed to escape the worst of the wet weather.

The coffee house was dull and gloomy and damp and cold, the gas turned down low even as the streets outside darkened. He watched the rain run down the windows as a young woman in a faded cap and matching dress brought him his coffee, all the while carrying on a conversation with someone in the back room Spencer couldn't see. Outside, people hurried down the street, their hats pulled down low against the rain and the cold February wind.

Spencer wondered if the rain would stop by the time he left. He squared his shoulders, and brought his newspaper out from under his coat. He glanced about the room, taking in the other customers of Mrs. Engleby's dilapidated but busy coffee house, and carefully unfolded his copy of _The Times_.

He read systematically, starting in the top left-hand corner and reading each column right down into the bottom right, stopping to stare at W.G Horsefeld's drawing of the loco-motive machine at Darlington as he read. He didn't know how long he would have to stay here, in the corner by the fireplace, and it wouldn't do to rush. Besides, he was strangely captivated by the picture of the great steam-powered machine, and for the promise of industrial revolution such travel must surely bring to the country. What impact on the war would such a machine have? It would make travelling the length and breadth of the land easier, at the very least, although without the promise of loco-motives across the sea in France Spencer could see very little practical assistance in bringing this godforsaken war to a close.

He was half-way down page four when he was disturbed by the door swinging wide open, bringing in both the cold and the rain as well as a tall, narrow-shouldered gentleman with pinched, pink cheeks and a frown. Spencer glanced over the top of his newspaper, and then back down to the tiny print. He sighed, letting out a long breath, and carefully folded his newspaper into four.

The latest customer to Mrs. Engleby's wore a thick woollen greatcoat and a top hat that had long since seen better days. The gentleman tipped his hat towards the serving girl in the faded cotton bonnet in polite greeting, before pulling out the chair opposite Spencer's and loosening his scarf.

“Kit,” Spencer said, with a nod. He placed his folded newspaper on the table with his gloves on top, one facing the fire, the other towards the serving girl. His companion's eyes narrowed, just for a moment.

“Spencer,” Kit – Christopher Reinold, but known to those who knew him as Kit – nodded and, pulling off his glove, held out his hand for Spencer to shake. “What a surprise, meeting you here.”

“Indeed,” Spencer said, watching as Kit dropped his gloves down on top of Spencer's, and noting the positioning. Meeting Kit wasn't a surprise. None of it was a surprise, from the choice of coffee house to Spencer's choice of seat, to Kit meeting him here and shaking his hand. “How is your lovely wife?”

Kit's lovely wife didn't exist. He was a bachelor, like Spencer. Things hadn't changed since the first time they'd met at university, some six or seven years previously. Neither of them had courted in the hope of marriage. Spencer wouldn't come into his inheritance until his twenty-sixth year, and no person of good breeding would choose him until then. Nor would they then, Spencer thought grimly, for his inheritance was not so large as it should have been, nor his house as grand. His father had made some bad financial choices back when he had been alive, and Spencer lived with the consequences, supporting his mother (and, prior to their marriages, his younger sisters). He did not think of marriage very often, for he told himself that he could not reconcile his work with the idea of a family at home.

“Capital, capital,” Kit told him, without any outward sign that he was telling naught but a series of carefully-worded lies. “She and the baby had a touch of a cold last week.”

“Oh,” Spencer said, shaking his head. “I do hope they're better.”

“Much better, thank you,” Kit said, and he waved over the serving girl, desiring her to bring him coffee. He turned back to Spencer. “I hear tell you have a new pair of greys. Care to join me in a wager, first clear day?”

“They are not broken in yet,” Spencer said carefully, not thinking about the pain in his injured leg, and how it was likely he'd never ride with any ease again. He did not keep a carriage in town, and the carriage at his house in the country had seen much better days. “I will not race them until the summer, if then.”

“Shame on you,” Kit said. “Cottinghall says he has two that none of us can beat, but I fail to see how that can help him. Cottinghall's always been a terrible driver.”

Kit's coffee arrived, and Spencer watched as Kit knocked it back, shaking his head against the heat. Mrs. Engleby's coffee might be strong and bitter and taste as much of dirt as it did of coffee, but it was hot.

“Ah,” Kit said, licking his lips. “That was just what I needed. I think the rain may be easing, don't you think?”

Spencer peered out of the window. It was almost dark outside, the streets shadowed and wet. “Maybe,” he said. It was possible the rain was easing, but it was still wet and cold. Spencer thought briefly of his fireplace at home, the roaring fire and his manservant bringing him tea. It would be some hours before he could return home.

“I must get to the blacksmith before he finishes for the day,” Kit said, standing up. He reached for his gloves, but not before leaning forward and shaking Spencer's hand. He picked up Spencer's gloves instead of his own. “A bill to settle, you know. Best to the family, Smith.”

“Same to you, Reinold,” Spencer said, his face remaining impassive even as Kit slipped him the messages, paper folded tiny, palm to palm. “You must come over for dinner soon.” _Received and understood._

“That would be a pleasure,” Kit said, nodding. _Key noted_ , it meant. _Information exchange complete_.

After the door had closed behind him, Spencer unfolded his newspaper again and stayed where he was, by the fire in the corner, until he had read through right until the end of his newspaper. Then he reached for his cane and stood up, awkwardly and uncomfortably. The damp weather was causing his leg to ache from morning until night, and even then he couldn't sleep for the damned pain. The smallest movement was causing him discomfort and frustration, and Spencer couldn't help but think back to before he'd been shot, when simple things like standing and walking and sleeping didn't seem like insurmountable, painful tasks.

He moved slowly, pulling his collar up against the dark, smoky, rainy London evening as he ventured out into the street. He waited in the rain at the end of the street until he could flag down a hansom carriage, and with barely concealed embarrassment, motioned the driver down to assist him inside.

Once he was settled and the carriage was on the move towards Whitehall, he moved Kit's letters to a pocket hidden in the lining of his coat, and then he concentrated on trying to soothe the tired ache out of his injured leg.

Spencer wished he were anywhere but here.

  


_  
**A Presumption of Functionality**   
_

The weather continued wet and miserable as the month wore on. February seemed content to be nothing but dark and rainy, and Spencer was stiff and cold as he climbed out of bed in the mornings, holding on to the bedstead as he tried to catch his balance. He remembered a time when getting out of bed wasn't an exertion in itself, and ground his teeth against the pain in his leg.

On this particular morning, there was a fire already burning in the grate. When he noticed, Spencer realised how exhausted he must have been, because he hadn't woken as he normally did when his manservant had come in to lay and light the fire. In fact, he hadn't woken until Dawes had leaned over him and touched at his shoulder, reminding him of his early appointment at Whitehall.

Spencer still didn't feel awake, just cold and sluggish, right down into his very bones.

"Some tea, Mr. Smith?" Dawes asked, offering Spencer his assistance over to the chair by the fire. Spencer took his arm awkwardly, still uncomfortable with the fact that he sometimes required assistance. Apparently getting shot and then leaving the bullet there to fester for forty-eight hours wasn't exactly high on the list of things to do if you wanted to maintain full use of your leg. Still, Spencer reminded himself, he had come close to needing his leg amputated. He was more than sure that he wouldn't have seen the other side of that particular surgery, especially as when he'd come off the boat at Dover, almost two days after he had been shot, he'd been delirious with fever as it was. "There's a pot by the fire," Dawes told him, gruffly, "and toast."

Spencer nodded. "Thank you," he said, and massaged his aching leg with one hand as he reached for his tea cup.

"There's a message just come for you," Dawes said, laying Spencer's clothes out across the bottom of the bed.

"Oh yes?" Spencer asked. He gulped at his tea and leaned closer in to the fire.

Dawes nodded, straightening Spencer's covers. "From Whitehall," he said. "It's Ausfield's seal."

"Thank you," Spencer said, holding his hand out. Dawes brought the letter out of his pocket, and handed it over.

When Spencer had first started working for the War Office, straight out of university, Ausfield had been Spencer's contact out in the field. When Spencer had been in France, spying on Napoleon's shipyards and sending the information back to the War Office, it had been Ausfield who collected what information Spencer could pass back, and later on, when Spencer had been delirious with fever, with the bullet still lodged in his leg, it had been Ausfield who had got Spencer out of France and back to England and a surgeon.

Afterwards, when Ausfield had been promoted out of the field and into the highly secret branch of the War Office hidden deep underground beneath Whitehall, he had somehow found and employed the wonderful Dawes for Spencer, and later still, when Spencer was at last out of the sick room and carefully trying to find some way of gaining employment, Ausfield had demanded that Spencer be seconded from the field and into his office. Considering that at the time, Spencer could barely walk by himself and that his chances of ever getting back into the field were slim at best, Spencer chose to take the term 'secondment' lightly.

The note was heavily encrypted, and Spencer sighed, trying to blink away the last remnants of sleep as he struggled to understand the creased page in his hand. There were two parts to decrypting a cypher: the first, knowing which algorithm they were using for encoding in the first place, and the second, knowing the specific key needed to unlock the code. The key in this case was particular to Ausfield and Spencer alone; ever since Spencer had been able to work, he had been putting his analytical brain to good use, working as a cryptographer. The types of letters he exchanged with Ausfield tended to be knee-deep in secrets crucial to the on-going war with Napoleon. This one was a lot simpler, however. Hidden within the paragraphs of plain text it just said, _come into the office as soon as you get this_.

Spencer sighed, and gulped down the remains of his cup of tea. "Dawes, could you send for a carriage, please?" he asked, and he hurried to finish the rest of his toast.

  


Ausfield's personal secretary was a tight-lipped gentleman with a greying moustache and very impressive whiskers. He was only ever referred to as Mr. Bede, but Spencer was aware that that wasn't actually his name. Espionage came with its own set of rules and threats and dangers, and everyone who came into contact with Ausfield tended to have a history in the field. Spencer didn't ask for Mr. Bede's history, and in return, Bede didn't ask for Spencer's. It worked well for them both, especially as Spencer had no desire to re-live or re-visit any of his time in France.

The war with Napoleon had been going on for twenty-five years. Spencer had never known a time where France wasn't the enemy, where Napoleon hadn't sat on the Imperial Throne and called himself Emperor of all France and beyond. The intensity of war ebbed and flowed, as he supposed all wars did, but at the time Spencer had been out in the field, all he had seen was a country ravaged by battle. He didn't know where Bede had been, but he couldn't imagine it was anywhere that hadn't left its own shadows and marks. He imagined the same must be said of his manservant, Dawes, although Ausfield had never seen fit to share that particular piece of information with Spencer.

Spencer greeted Bede politely, as he always did, and Bede stared at him for a moment. "He's delayed," Bede told him, shortly.

Spencer had long since stopped being offended by Bede's manner of speech. "I'll wait," he said, and he took the chair in the corner, giving himself room to stretch his leg out.

"As you wish," Bede said, but Spencer knew that at least he was on Bede's good side, for Bede had a cup of tea brought over to him after a few minutes.

The wait was interminable and terribly dull. Above him, the gas-light hissed and flickered, the gas supply sometimes problematic this far underground. Spencer had work he could have been getting on with in his office, but once free, Ausfield hated being kept waiting and Spencer knew that whatever had caused him to send that note so early in the morning could not bode well for Spencer's already busy workload. Instead, he waited, and took the time to concentrate on the pain in his leg and try and massage the ache out of his muscles.

It didn't work.

He'd been there almost an hour before the door opened and Ausfield came out of his office, followed by the Duke of Wellington. Spencer started; he had no idea that Wellesley was back from the continent, and he was even less prepared to meet the Commander in Chief of the British Army than he was to meet with Ausfield, so he stumbled awkwardly and painfully to his feet and felt stupid.

"Your Grace," Spencer said, inclining his head.

"Indeed," the Duke nodded back. He turned to Ausfield. "Is this the one?"

Ausfield nodded. "Spencer Smith."

"Excellent cryptography work, Smith," Wellington said, before marching out of the office and into the hallway.

Spencer blinked.

"In here," Ausfield said, shortly, and held the door open for Spencer to follow him inside, which Spencer did, albeit slowly.

"What do you know of air-travel, Smith?" Ausfield asked, as Spencer sat down.

Spencer felt confused. "You mean -" He didn't actually know _what_ Ausfield meant.

"Flying machines," Ausfield clarified.

"Well," Spencer said. "Nothing. They don't exist."

"They don't exist _yet_ ," Ausfield said, and he moved aside a pile of papers to unfold a thick packet. "Wellington and I think they will determine the outcome of this damned war," he explained, continuing to unfold the papers. "It's a race, Smith, a race between us and that damned Napoleon to see which one of us gets them first." Ausfield said _damned_ a lot.

A lot of thoughts went through Spencer's head all at once, the loudest of which was the one that sounded like, _this man belongs in the asylum_. "But, Sir," he started. "It's impossible."

"No," Ausfield said, slowly, one eyebrow raised. "it just hasn't been invented yet."

Spencer blinked. "Yet?" he said, carefully.

"Yet," Ausfield agreed. "Do you know much about the Royal Society?"

Spencer shrugged. "Not much." He knew they were a society made up of great minds, and that there was information coming in from there. It sometimes turned up on his desk. He knew that what information they did get was encrypted and decrypted and then encrypted again, and that the society's members were the most eminent scientists in England, but not any more than that.

"A lot of pompous old men with no more sense between them than a single rat," Ausfield told him, shortly. If there was one thing Spencer knew about Ausfield, it was his lack of tolerance for virtually everyone else, Spencer included. "Urie went to them _thirty years ago_ with an idea for a flying craft, and they sent him away! Cretins, the lot of them."

"Um," Spencer managed, because Ausfield tended to prefer it if you at least _tried_ to keep up with his train of thought. George Ausfield was the latest in a long line of Ausfields to grace the hallowed steps of Whitehall; his father had been the under-secretary to the Home Secretary, and his grandfather adviser to the then-Prime Minister. Whatever his official title in the War Office – and Spencer wasn't privy to that information, things being kept close to people's chests deep in their underground offices - Ausfield fully intended on staying there for life. His time out in the field was over, that much Spencer knew.

"Here," Ausfield said, sliding the packet of papers across the desk. "Read those, and tell me what you think."

Spencer made to stand up, reaching for his cane, but Ausfield waved him back down into his seat.

"Stay here," he said. "There isn't a classified label high enough for those papers; they go no further than this office. Whole future of this blasted war with Napoleon rests on those, you see if it doesn't."

Spencer blinked. He was fairly sure that Ausfield wasn't prone to exaggeration, but he failed to see what one pile of papers could hide that could turn the tide of the whole war. He'd seen important and top secret papers before, and none of them held the secrets to winning this damned war. He sighed, and started to read.

It took him a long time, for some of the writing was small and crabbed, and yet more was water damaged and virtually unreadable. They used a cypher Spencer was uncertain of, and it took him longer than he wanted to admit to be able to read them clearly. Cryptography had come relatively easily to him, and for the first time since he'd read mathematics at university, he'd felt like he had a task in front of him he could actually achieve. Pages of encrypted writing didn't leave him with the same sense of desperate futility that a single order out in the field always had; this was something Spencer could _do_.

The packet seemed to be mostly comprised of copies of letters sent to the Royal Society, dated at intermittent points in the last two years; although Spencer could decrypt the encoding, with the assistance of the encryption key Ausfield slid across his desk, there was much in the letters he could not understand.

"They're plans," Ausfield explained, after Spencer sighed frustratedly for what felt like the hundredth time. "They theorise the building and the flying of flying-craft. Dirigibles."

"I don't understand," Spencer said, finally. "How come we have them?" He wasn't asking _how did this information come to be in our possession?_ for the handling of information was their trade, but rather, why was Spencer spending his morning reading through the packet. He had other, similarly difficult to understand paperwork of his own to get through, not least of which was the latest packet from Kit Reinold.

"Because these are letters sent to the Royal Society," Ausfield told him, "sent to the Royal Society and sent back _unopened_."

"I don't understand," Spencer said, again.

Ausfield sighed, and rubbed at the end of his moustache with his finger and thumb. "We have someone on the inside," he explained, which, whilst supposedly news to Spencer, didn't surprise him in the least. "Our person opens the letters, makes copies, and then seals the originals again and passes them on. The Royal Society – society of useless, stupid men as they are – see the name _Urie_ on the envelope, decide that they don't need to see what's inside, return the letter to the sender marked _unread_ , and then pass around a box of cigars, secure in the knowledge they've just decreased the chances of England winning this damned war and extended the battle for another twelve-month." Ausfield, red-faced and angry, hit his fist against the table-top. "The revolution did for France," he went on, "but by gad, there are some people who deserve the guillotine."

Spencer didn't dwell on _that_ particular line of reasoning. "And the sender is one Henry Urie," he said, quickly, glancing down at the papers in his lap. "So these are _his_ plans for a – a flying-craft."

"Yes," Ausfield said. "The whole _war_ could turn on this man and his work and they can't even open his damned letters."

"Well," Spencer said, slowly. "What do you want me to do?"

"What?" Ausfield cleared his throat. "We sent Mr. and Mrs. Wentz up to Yorkshire to keep an eye on Urie whilst we arranged things, but they've sent word that Urie hasn't been seen for some days."

Spencer wished his leg didn't hurt so much, as he'd be much better placed to sit here for hours and decrypt papers that weren't that much more intelligible even when translated back into plain text. As it was, what had started as a dull ache had matured into something much more intense, and he longed to walk off some of the discomfort at least. "He's missing?" he asked, finally tuning in. Peter and Ashlee Wentz's work was well known to Spencer – Mrs. Wentz was rumoured to have been either an opera singer or a ballerina, prior to her marriage, a role that had gained her entrance to the upper echelons of France's post-revolution society, and much of the information she had gleaned had found its way back to Spencer's desk in Whitehall, and from there back out into the field.. Peter Wentz's work had centred mainly around the shipyards, like Spencer's had, but the subsequent Wentz marriage had created one of Ausfield's most successful partnerships to date. Posing as a recently-married couple allowed them access to many areas where a single gentleman's presence may well be questioned.

"Could be," Ausfield nodded. When Spencer had first known him, Ausfield had been leaner and muscular; since his job had enabled him to be behind a desk much of the time, he'd inclined towards fat, and Spencer tried not to stare at the way his shirt buttons stretched beneath his waistcoat and coat. "Or he could just be holed up in his workshop, busy saving the war for us."

"Uh-huh," Spencer said, noncommittally, because the alternative was accepting that flying-craft were not only a possibility, but an imminent one.

"The Wentzes have been monitoring the mail out of Urie's village," Ausfield went on, "and the only packets Urie's sending are to the Royal Society. If they're not opening them, then so far the only people who know about Urie's theories are us. We can therefore probably rule out kidnapping, unless Urie's been throwing his weight around vocally up there, but Wellington and I want you to go up and start making some official enquiries. Wentz has Telegraphed to say that the last packet was sent out a few days ago, so we know Urie was there then. He hasn't been seen since."

"You want me to _what_?" Spencer said, in disbelief. He could barely travel the distance between his rooms and Whitehall every day; the idea of the coach journey to Yorkshire was enough to have him wishing for his mother's smelling salts.

"Chances are he's a mad old coot who hasn't come out of his workshop in a week," Ausfield told him. "There's probably nothing to worry about. All you have to do is meet with him, see whether there's anything in these plans of his, and report back. See how amenable he is to moving his workshop down here, having him work somewhere we can keep an eye on him, have some people around to keep him safe."

Spencer swallowed down his initial thought, which was, _How am I supposed to know if there's anything in these plans of his?_ He'd had more difficult assignments in the past few years, usually involving Napoleon's shipyards and breaking and entering. He preferred the work he was doing now, at his desk, far below Whitehall.

"Wellington's agreed to fund his research, provided he doesn't belong in the asylum, - and probably even if he does, so long as he can work - and we'll get him set up somewhere we can keep an eye on him. If word gets out to Napoleon's chums we're building flying crafts, then they'll be after him like a shot." Ausfield went on. "We need to get his papers somewhere safe, and bring him in to the fold. Think you can do that?"

Spencer scratched at his chin, his beard itchy. It needed clipping. "Yes," he said, because the task itself wasn't difficult, even if he wasn't sure he was up to the journey. "What happens if he really _is_ missing, though?"

Ausfield stopped, and shrugged. "You Telegraph us and then we'll make sure his papers and plans are safe. I'll send some people up to empty his workshop and get it down here, and then we find him and hope it isn't those damned Frenchies who've got him."

"Uh-huh," Spencer said, and slid the papers back across the desk to Ausfield. He squared his shoulders, and made to stand up. "When do you want me to leave?"

"Sit down," Ausfield told him. "I need to go through the cyphers with you. The carriage will come for you at your lodgings at six this evening. Plenty of time. Dawes is packing your things, I've already sent word."

Spencer let out a long breath, and leaned over the papers Ausfield passed across to him. He had to re-immerse himself in the cypher and learn the key before he could make his excuses. His leg hurt, and for a moment, Spencer wished he really was nothing more than a government clerk, like he'd pretended for years.

Spencer's mother believed Spencer to be a clerk for the Lord of the Treasury. Why she believed that this was enough to take Spencer out of London on a regular basis, Spencer had no idea, but believe it she had. He had been forever taking excursions to 'Newcastle', and 'Southampton', and coming back bruised and exhausted and hungry. Sometimes he wished his family asked more questions, or at least considered the possibility that he might be lying, just so he could share the burden. But they never did, and they'd accepted seemingly without questioning his story of him being thrown from a horse when he'd come home with a hole in his leg where the bullet had been..

The physician tending him had been in Ausfield's employ, and hadn't let on about Spencer's bullet wound, instead perpetuating Spencer's story of being trampled by his crazed horse.

He hoped his family never saw his scars, for he felt sure they wouldn't be so willing to believe if they saw the bullet wounds.

He didn't leave Ausfield's office until mid-afternoon, which left him barely any time to prepare for his departure. His mother was due in town soon, and he had to send her a note to tell her he may still be away. He felt bad about that; since his younger sisters' marriages, his mother had been mostly alone, and Spencer wished that he could at least offer her some company.

Still, it wasn't to be, and he sent a note ahead to Dawes to have him remember a few items Spencer felt sure he couldn't be without. He took a pile of deeply encrypted notes he and Ausfield had made, and then he pulled on his greatcoat, wrapped tightly around him to ward off the bitter cold, and went back up to Whitehall to hail a hansom carriage back to his rooms.

  


The journey north seemed interminable. Every jolt of the carriage ricocheted down Spencer's leg and he managed barely any sleep as they journeyed on through the night. Spencer had managed on a lot less, but he had rather hoped that the part of his life that required him to be fully alert after no sleep was past. They barely stopped, other than to change horses and once at a safe-house, one of the cottages and huts across the country that the War Office kept sparsely furnished for just such an occasion as this, when one of its officers was journeying across the country with little wish to bed down at an inn for a few hours. There was an hour for sleep, and an hour for eating, and then they were on their way again, bone-tired and weary, journeying on through a second night on the road.

When they finally reached the West Riding, Spencer was barely able to register anything but the pain in his leg and his overwhelming exhaustion. As they rode the last few miles to the Urie house, the dull, grey clouds the only sight out of the window, he indulged himself in longing for his bed, with its warmed bricks and piles of blankets and a blazing fire. He imagined the crackle and the hiss of the gas lamps as he wrapped his gown about him and struggled to stay awake for another chapter of his book. Instead, he had no idea where he was sleeping and a crackpot task with an old coot of an inventor about an invention he was mostly sure was impossible and definitely ridiculous. He tried not to let his disapproval show on his face as he waited in the carriage for his driver to come and assist him down.

The Urie house was a rambling, ramshackle manor house, deep in the hills and at least a mile across moorland from the nearest village. It looked almost as if whoever lived here had merely forgotten that they lived somewhere that required upkeep; the windowpanes were rotting away and half the rooms looked closed up, the curtains drawn across the windows. The road up to the house had been nothing but pothole after pothole and the horses had stumbled as – at times – the road had meandered away to grass. The gardens were overgrown and if not for the sight of a stout housekeeper around the side of the house, hanging a rug over a line and hitting it for all it was worth with a bound bunch of willow sticks, dust going everywhere, Spencer would have been sure the house was uninhabited.

As it was, he couldn't understand why she was attempting spring cleaning in such damp conditions, but there was something about this whole house that was strange and a little odd, like a story out of his childhood. He half-expected the mythical dirigibles to be floating atop the house, tethered to the tumbling chimney-stacks or the half-ruined west wing.

He stood for a moment, perfectly convinced that the housekeeper couldn't have missed his arrival, but she didn't come to greet him. He started around the side of the house, his leg protesting at the imposition after so many cramped hours in the coach, just as she finished with her rug and turned around.

"Good day," Spencer said, politely, aware of the letter bearing Wellington's seal burning a hole in his coat pocket, allowing him passage wherever and whenever he chose should he decide to show it. "My name is Spencer Smith. I am here to see Mr. Urie. I believe he may be expecting me." Ausfield had sent a message through the Telegraph Station the previous day on Spencer's behalf, inviting himself to call upon Mr. Urie.

"Are you, now," she said, suspiciously. Behind her, Spencer could see a number of outbuildings that may have been stables at one time, clearly fallen into disrepair. The roof had collapsed on at least two of the buildings, and the third had no door. He wondered what straits Urie was in to continue to live like this, and what this meant for Spencer's horses, and his two carefully chosen coachmen. Thomas and Frederick were Ausfield's men, there for more than just coachmen duties, primed and prepared for whichever and whatever task fell to them. "Well, you'd better come inside and wait in the library, then."

She led him inside through a side door, into a crowded, dark hallway. There was side-table after side-table piled high with oddments and oddities. There was a short stack of nature boxes, butterflies and beetles pinned above notes written in crabbed handwriting, and more than one table of strange metal gadgets that Spencer didn't and couldn't recognise, a pair of goggles strewn carelessly atop. He had to walk sideways past a stuffed crow and stacks of papers covered in a loose, ink-smudged hand before the housekeeper led him into a room he supposed was the library. Bookshelves lined the walls, but from what Spencer could see, there was no kind of order imposed. Books lay open on every surface – including the chairs – and the desk was covered in a myriad of discarded cogs and gears. A very large and terribly dusty vase stood on a table in the middle of the room. There was a fireplace, and the remains of what was probably a fire, but the room was cold.

"I'll tell Mr. Urie you're here," she told him, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders, and Spencer tried not to roll his eyes. Clearly the idea of Urie being missing was a ridiculous one, and he wondered whether his whole task was a pointless waste of his time. He leaned against his walking stick for a moment, allowing himself his desperate wish for a comfortable bed and somewhere to take the weight off his leg, if only for a minute. He needed to sit down, but all the chairs were covered in books and papers and on one of them, most notably, a sleeping cat and a broken pair of goggles. His mother had drummed it into him that it was most rude to disturb the house of one who you were visiting, so he leaned against the desk and hoped that Urie wouldn't be too long.

After twenty minutes, he decided that the cat looked like the easiest thing to move, and he poked at it gingerly with one hand. The cat mewed a little, and blinked her eyes open, jumping down off the seat as Spencer carefully tried to move her to one side. He scooped up the broken goggles – one strap hanging off, the other attached with some kind of brass clip – and deposited them elsewhere.

He'd only been seated a moment before the cat – a kitten, after closer attention – jumped up onto his lap, and meowed at him until he moved his hand. She flopped down then, and curled up, an ugly orange thing with fur sticking up in different directions, and a little squashed nose.

She was the warmest creature he'd come across in a long time, and it wouldn't do to push her away. He had, after all, taken her seat. Instead, Spencer scratched her behind the ears, and she purred, pressing her nose to Spencer's palm.

Spencer found himself trying to hide his smile.

  


When Spencer finally heard noises in the hallway, he was close to convincing himself that he had been forgotten. He had been in the library almost an hour, and any comfort he'd gleaned from being able to sit down had long been overshadowed by the effect the cold and the damp in the air were having on his leg.

Still, it was a surprise when someone finally came into the library, and it was even more of a surprise to find out that the man couldn't be Mr. Urie. He was young – far too young to be the Henry Urie who had been a regular correspondent of the Royal Society thirty years previously. It was unlikely that this man had even been alive back then; he looked much the same age as Spencer himself. He was also dirty, dressed in shirt sleeves and breeches, his Hessian boots cracked and worn from age and use. His waistcoat hung open and he wore a leather apron; oil stained his shirt and his fingers and his cheek and he was still wearing his goggles.

Spencer blinked, and belatedly he remembered he should really stand up. He tried to dislodge the sleeping cat from his lap, but before he could, his host leaned in and scooped the cat right out of Spencer's lap, standing up and holding the cat close.

"I wondered where you'd gone," he said, happily, petting the half-asleep cat. He turned to Spencer and said, "I thought she was asleep by the boiler, but when I went to check she wasn't there."

"Uh," Spencer managed, somewhat disarmed.

The man blinked, his eyes strangely large and owlish through his goggles. He seemed to realise, and pulled the goggles up, leaving them resting in his hair.

"I was looking for Mr. Urie," Spencer said, careful not to betray his utter confusion at what he was being presented with; this house and everything in it was clearly mad. "My name is Spencer Smith -"

"My name is Urie," the man said, and he seemed a little shy now he wasn't talking about his cat, his gaze dropping, his cheeks pink.

"I'm not sure -" Spencer started. He fingered the letter in his pocket, unsure what possible use it would be to bring it out at this juncture. " _Henry_ Urie?" he asked, doubtfully.

"Oh, no. I'm Brendon." He looked at Spencer, wide-eyed, and bit his lip.

Spencer wondered if he might be actually insane. He had come across mad people on his travels; it wasn't unusual. It would explain this tumbledown, falling-down house in the middle of nowhere, full of its strange books and contraptions and oil stains. "Is, uh. Can I speak with Henry Urie?"

"Oh," Brendon said. "My grandfather's not here."

A vague warning bell rang somewhere in the back of Spencer's head. "Do you know when he'll be back?" Spencer asked. He fingered the letter in his pocket, remembering Ausfield's, _the whole future of the war could depend on this man_. He had no idea if Ausfield was right or not.

Brendon shrugged, and hugged his cat. His hands were covered in oil, and Spencer wondered distractedly how the cat reacted to oil in his fur. "He may be back for breakfast."

"I've come all the way from London," Spencer said, carefully. "It's vitally important that I speak with your grandfather as soon as possible. I sent word. Do you know where I might find him?"

Brendon looked startled. "From _London_?" he asked. "Just to see Grandfather?"

"Yes," Spencer said. He pulled Wellington's letter from his pocket. "I come from Wellington himself," he said, and waited for Brendon's expression to change. It didn't, and after a moment, Spencer continued, nonplussed. "I need to speak with your grandfather as soon as possible. We did send a Telegraph."

"Mrs. Field's son normally brings the Telegraphs. I haven't seen him, though, but that doesn't mean he hasn't been here. I've been busy," Brendon said, ignoring Spencer's letter in favour of stroking his ugly orange kitten. "Grandfather will likely be back in the morning. For breakfast, probably."

Spencer let out a breath, dropping his hand and sliding Wellington's note back into his pocket. "You don't know where he is now?"

"He went to see the otters," Brendon said. The kitten purred. "I think. It might have been stoats. He thought he saw tracks, so he went to see if he could find their habitat."

"And he's staying out overnight?" Spencer had spent far too many enforced nights outside with little cover to ever choose to do that for the sake of an _otter_ , and in this cold weather, too. Spencer shivered.

"I should think so," Brendon said, distractedly. He'd spotted the tumbled mess of cogs on the desk and was already sifting through them. "I'd forgotten these were here," he explained, and Spencer longed to just give up and demand Brendon show him his grandfather's papers, but Ausfield had warned him to tread carefully and win Urie's respect. Word had it that no one had heard hide nor hair of Urie since he had retired from the Royal Society thirty years ago, before war had even broken out. To gain his trust at this stage, Spencer really had to square his shoulders and wait for Urie's return, rather than start obviously rifling through his papers the moment his back was turned. Spencer hoped that Urie's grandson was right about him tracking otters. It would make his task so much easier if he could explain away Urie's disappearance to Ausfield as merely a nature expedition. The last thing he wanted to untangle was anything more furtive and potentially dangerous.

"Would you -" Brendon held out a handful of metalwork. "Could you hold these for me a moment? The cat, you know."

Spencer blinked, because Brendon was still holding on to his mewing cat at the same time as sorting through the cogs spread across the desk; he was asking Spencer to hold a pile he'd picked out. "Uh," Spencer managed, but he couldn't think of any reason why he couldn't do what Brendon was asking of him, regardless of how strange it seemed. Most people introduced themselves and rang for tea; Brendon Urie seemed content to leave Spencer in a cold room for an hour with only a cat for company, and then expect him to hold a handful of cogs in lieu of any refreshment at all. Spencer held his hand out, because his mother had always taught him to be polite.

"Thank you," Brendon told him distractedly. "I'd forgotten I'd brought these up here, I went to look on the shelf and ended up thinking we'd run out, and I couldn't _think_ of where we might have used them."

"Oh," Spencer said. "Do you help your grandfather in his workshop?"

Brendon stopped sorting through the cogs in front of him, his fingers slowing on the table top. Spencer watched him and wondered what it meant; there was a reason he was better at cryptography than he ever had been at being a spy. "Sometimes," Brendon said, noncommittally.

Spencer wondered how to continue. He had already shown Wellington's letter, with little effect. He could get it out again, and just demand assistance packing up Urie's research notes and have them ready to remove to London once Urie was back from his otter excursion, but that didn't sit well with Spencer. He believed strongly in a person's right to choose, and he felt that he should at least offer Urie the choice before demanding he accompany Spencer to London, and the protection of the War Office. On the other hand, Spencer hated waiting; waiting around was what had got him shot in the first place. He longed to ask for a cup of tea.

"Will you be staying for dinner?" the housekeeper asked from the doorway. Spencer hadn't even heard her approach, and he reprimanded himself for his lack of attention. He'd been too long out of the field; exhaustion and discomfort were no excuse for such an appalling slip.

Brendon glanced down at his cat. Spencer couldn't be sure, but he thought that there might be something _moving_ in Brendon's pocket, wriggling and squirming. "Would you like to?" Brendon asked, scratching his cat between the ears and looking across at Spencer with bright eyes.

Spencer didn't know what to say. Brendon was disarming; he was strange and his behaviour was decidedly odd but there was something almost – charming in the way he was looking across at him. Spencer had no idea how to respond to such a request, though; Brendon clearly had no idea of social etiquette. He settled for an awkward, "Yes. Please."

Brendon's mouth curled into a shy smile. "I do not often have company," he said, softly, and Spencer refrained from saying, _that is very clear_.

"My coachmen -" Spencer said, a little awkwardly. "My carriage."

"Oh," Brendon said. "Where are you staying tonight? Will you be late?"

Spencer blinked. "I have not arranged to stay anywhere, yet," he explained. "Will there be somewhere in the village, do you think?" he asked, even though he knew there was no suitable inn with ten miles of the Urie house. There was a ramshackle inn in the village where Ausfield's agents, Mr. and Mrs. Wentz, were holing up; Spencer's back up plan involved setting up there. He didn't want to, though. If he was here then this whole business could be wrapped up quickly and Spencer could be back in London in a few days.

" _The Oak_ ," Brendon said, doubtfully. "But we have room a-plenty here, and it is already growing dark outside."

"The horses," Spencer said, although he had decided that his plan involved staying right here, under Urie's nose.

"My son's come down," the housekeeper told him, "he'll serve as stable-boy tonight; there's room in the old stable block for the horses, and room enough for the men too, above."

"See?" Brendon said, and Spencer wondered whether he imagined the note of hope somewhere beneath Brendon's words. "You must stay here, and be my guest."

Spencer wondered whether Brendon invited strangers to stay in his home often; he doubted it, if the rough track up to the front door was anything to go by. There hadn't been much traffic up to the Urie house recently – the grass had stood tall, unflattened by cart tracks or carriage marks. "Thank you," he said, inclining his head. "We would be grateful of your hospitality."

"You can see Grandfather tomorrow," Brendon said, as the housekeeper excused herself back down the hallway towards what Spencer assumed was the kitchens. He had a vague idea of the geography of the place, the number of windows across the front of the house, the length of the hallway the housekeeper had led him down until they had reached the library all helping him with his mental floor-plans. He'd already checked the locks on each of the windows in the library, noting the ones that had swollen shut through years of disuse, and the one window in the corner that looked as if it had at least been opened relatively recently. Spencer always knew where the exit was.

Brendon piled a handful of brass workings into the pocket of his waistcoat, his cat still curled up against his chest. Spencer tried to scan across the titles on the bookshelves, but the room was ill-lit and dusk was falling outside.

Movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye again. Spencer was _sure_ there was something moving in Brendon's pocket. His mother had taught him never to comment on other people, but he couldn't help himself. "Is that -" he started, before righting himself. "I'm sorry," he said, "but there appears to be something moving in your pocket."

Brendon bit his lip. "Yes," he said, and he tipped the cat onto the cluttered sofa. She mewed, and curled up on a pile of open books. Spencer had already rifled through and taken note of the titles and had an idea of the contents; his mother may have warned him against being impolite, but he was also a spy, if a very poor one, and he had catalogued as much of the room as he'd been able to without disturbing the dust. Espionage was so much easier when his hosts kept a clean house.

Brendon reached into his pocket and brought out a small, curled up creature, all covered in spines. Spencer tried to stifle his instinctive recoil, but Brendon just stroked at one of the creature's feet with the tip of his finger. Spencer watched as what was clearly a tiny hedgehog uncurled itself sleepily, stretching out across Brendon's palm.

"This is William," Brendon said, softly. "He's my hedgehog."

"Uh-huh," Spencer said, stupidly. "It was in your pocket."

"Yes," Brendon agreed. "That's where he sleeps, mostly. Although sometimes I put him down next to me and he falls asleep there, too." He blinked. "Or sometimes he wanders off. But he always comes back. Mostly he sleeps a lot."

"Well," Spencer said, because what else could a person say if presented with a hedgehog who slept in an odd person's pocket. "That's good. That he comes back, I mean."

"Yes," Brendon agreed, "I'd be rather sad without this little chap around to keep me company."

Spencer felt an odd pull in his chest, and decided it was best to blame it on the extremely long journey up from London, and the throbbing ache in his leg. "Well," he said again, "I had best go see my coachmen, tell them we are staying here." The politeness instilled in him from his mother meant that he wished to say, _if that is alright with you, Mr. Urie_ , but the demands placed upon him by his particular division of the War Office meant that he could not offer up the opportunity for Brendon to send Spencer away.

"Hmm?" Brendon said, but he was staring down at his pile of cogs and metalwork again, stroking his hedgehog's nose with the tip of his finger. "Oh, yes, of course."

  


Dinner was an odd affair, and Spencer couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. The housekeeper brought boiled ham and great plates of potatoes and Spencer couldn't in any way criticise the fare, other than to say it was a little plainer than the food he might have expected in London, or at home with his mother. The seat at the head of the table stood empty, and Spencer was careful to notice the worn patches on the arms of the heavy dining chair, and the faded, worn embroidery that suggested it had been well used, and for a very long time. It must be the older Mr. Urie's chair. Spencer hoped that nothing had happened to him, and not just because he didn't want this to be a difficult mission.

The younger Mr. Urie sat opposite Spencer, and he paid scant attention to Spencer until he had filled a tea saucer with water for his hedgehog, who wandered across the table to nose at Spencer's plate with little respect for any of the strict societal manners that Spencer had had instilled in him from an early age.

"Your hedgehog appears very tame," Spencer said finally, when it became clear that the oppressive, awkward atmosphere wasn't going to be broken by his host. Brendon ate quickly, staring down at his plate, and Spencer would have thought him rude if it weren't for the pink flush that stained his cheeks, and his white knuckles, clutching his knife and fork too tightly for comfort.

"He is," Brendon said, looking across at his hedgehog. He managed a smile, which Spencer preferred to the taut, unsmiling version of his host that Spencer had mostly been privy to. "He is so friendly, too. I think he lacks companionship. I think hedgehogs may be social creatures, and I am -" he stumbled over his words, and he flushed. "I am starved of companionship," he said, at last.

"The village does not offer much in the way of entertainment? Assembly rooms?" Spencer asked, to get some idea of the area. He imagined living out here on the moors with no one to talk to, and shivered. Spencer had little in the way of friendship himself – his closest friends from university had been recruited alongside him straight into the field, and although he met with Kit Reinold occasionally, Spencer had not seen Ryan Ross since they had first arrived in London. He had some idea that he was deep undercover in Paris, and occasionally Ausfield pushed a piece of paper across at Spencer that seemed to suggest that Ryan was still alive, but one of the few rules of Spencer's chosen career was understanding that those agents in the field were off-limits, as good as dead for the duration of their particular assignment. Spencer thought of Ryan often, but it had been three years now, three years without a word, and Spencer had had to get used to the gap in his life where Ryan used to be. He saw Kit occasionally, but Kit was busy with his own job, and his own life, and much as it pained Spencer to say it, he spent much of his time alone. There were people all around him in London, though, and he spent much of his time in his office beneath Whitehall, and it was a very different existence to the one Brendon was living, up here in Yorkshire.

Brendon held out a little of his meat for his hedgehog to eat; the hedgehog ate straight from Brendon's fingers, and Spencer found himself watching with interest; he had never been this close to a hedgehog before. "My grandfather does not care much for company," Brendon told him, carefully, "and we no longer keep a carriage."

"You do not ride?" Spencer asked.

"Very ill," Brendon explained. "I stay mostly upright, but I am quite often to find myself in the bushes, or the shrubbery. I fear our horse thinks very little of me."

Spencer smiled, and the taut lines of Brendon's shoulders loosened, if just a little. "So you must keep yourself busy here," he said, hoping to find out something of the elder Mr. Urie's habits. "Do you assist your grandfather with his research?"

"Oh," Brendon said, startled. He began to cut his potatoes into smaller and smaller pieces, pushing them around his plate. Spencer had eaten too quickly, hungry after the long journey. "I am not much interested in stoats, so I fear I do him more harm than good by offering to help."

Stoats? Spencer wondered if that were somehow code for the flying contraptions that Ausfield had assured him Urie was working on. He shivered, chilled and exhausted. There was a fire in the grate but it had burned low, and it was colder here than Spencer was used to, in his small rooms in London.

"You are cold," Brendon said, suddenly. "And you must be tired, I'm sure your journey was very long indeed. I have never been to London," he said, and Spencer thought he heard a tinge of longing. He studied Brendon's face carefully, but no hint of it appeared. "I very much wish to go to the Royal Amphitheatre and see the circus. It must be very grand in London, and busy," Brendon said. "Is it?"

"It is loud," Spencer said, "it is loud, and there are people everywhere, and -" he thought of the stench of _people_ , all packed close together. He had never been near Astley's Royal Amphitheatre. He wondered if it was still there, or if it had folded. He took so little interest in the goings-on in London. "It smells," he said, finally. "It is nicer here."

"Yes," Brendon said, but he looked a little sad. He stood up, looking around, but the copper pail by the fireplace was empty. "There is nothing in here to burn," he said, scooping his hedgehog up into the curve of his arm, "but I could go find something, or I could show you to your room. Would you prefer that? To sleep?"

Spencer wanted nothing more than to sleep, to sink deep into the abyss and wake up refreshed. His leg pained him greatly, but he knew that rather than waking up to less pain, he was condemned to wake up to worse, as was always the case after journeying a great distance. He also knew that he would not get a better opportunity to explore the house uninhibited than in the dead of night. "I am very tired," he admitted, and Brendon nodded.

"I shall show you to your room," Brendon said, a little stiffly. "I fear it is not what you are used to -"

Spencer shook his head, and thought of French hedgerows, or stealing a couple of hours in the back of a barn or an outhouse. "Your hospitality is very kind," he said, softly, and Brendon's mouth curved into an uneasy smile.

" _You_ are very kind," Brendon managed, after a moment. "But we are nothing on London hospitality here. The best I can offer you is a bed and warm bricks." He picked up a candle-lamp and started to lead Spencer out of the dining room and back out into the crowded hallway. The side-tables were piled with half-open books on botany and flora and fauna. Spencer strained to get a look at the papers, but Brendon kept checking behind him, and Spencer's leg was stiff and sore. Where it was easy for Brendon to turn a little to the side and avoid bumping in to a wooden box full of hay and some metal contraption Spencer couldn't put a name to, Spencer was awkward and ungainly. His leg was painful and he was not so used to his cane that he could negotiate a unfamiliar, crowded hallway with anything close to ease. He swore inwardly at his useless leg, trying his best to keep the extent of his limp and his pain a secret from his host.

Brendon gave no indication that there was anything wrong, however. He did not rush away with the lamp, nor did he offer Spencer his arm, as some people were known to have done. Spencer tried not to ask for anyone's arm; his injury brought him enough pain already, without the additional humiliation of having to accept assistance too. Sometimes he had to, though.

Brendon stayed close to Spencer as they moved down the hallway towards the staircase, and offered as much of the lamplight as he could. Brendon's house was missing the relatively new-fangled gas-light that many of the houses in London had switched to; Spencer realised that what he was missing was the familiar smell and sound of the gas-lamps as he moved from room to room. They had eaten by candlelight, and Brendon carried a candle-lamp now to light the way, like the ones Spencer's mother had used when Spencer and his sisters were children.

The stairs were steep, and Spencer took care to step particularly heavily as they made their way upstairs; he counted the steps and tried to remember which were the worst offenders for creaking as they walked. He made heavy weather of getting up the stairs, and he was ashamed to admit to himself that he was only partly pretending. His injury seemed to be getting worse, rather than better, and Spencer hated to admit how much of an impediment it was.

His bedroom seemed to be at the back of the house, and Brendon led him down a hallway that seemed wider and a lot less cluttered than the one downstairs. It smelled a little musty, and there was the cold, familiar damp smell that Spencer associated with closed-up, long left unused rooms. This part of the house was clearly not frequently used by Brendon and his grandfather.

When Brendon opened a door at the end of the hall, Spencer was presented with his bedroom. It had the same musty, damp odour as the hallway, but at least it was warm. A fire burned busily in the grate, throwing shadows across the rug. Candles flickered on the mantelpiece, and Brendon put his own candle-lamp down on the bedside table, illuminating the faded bedspread and the blanket covering the foot of bed, with two lumps underneath, which Spencer presumed were hot bricks. The room seemed warm, if a little stale, and Spencer had stayed in a lot worse places.

Brendon looked almost apologetic.

Spencer stopped him before he could say anything. "This looks perfect," he said, in his most hearty voice.

"If you are sure," Brendon said, doubtfully. "It is warm, at least."

"It is," Spencer agreed, looking around. There was a bowl on the dresser, and a jug. He looked forward to washing his face and removing the evidence of the long journey north. He longed for a bath, and his own bed, but this was a warm alternative. The fire in the grate crackled happily to itself, and Spencer watched as Brendon knelt down on the hearth and added another log to the fire, before moving the fire screen back in place. As he moved, Spencer recognised his own trunk, waiting for him on the floor. He swallowed a sigh, wondering if he could manage to kneel on his good leg and open it up. He contemplated sleeping in his clothes, and didn't dismiss the thought entirely. He was worn out and exhausted, and if he were to let himself, he knew he would be asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

As it was, he had a long night ahead of him and he longed for some kind of coffee.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?" Brendon asked, awkwardly.

Spencer shook his head. "I have everything I could need," he lied, because he was almost completely sure that Brendon couldn't offer him the bath and the manservant's assistance that Spencer so wished for.

"I shall bid you goodnight, then," Brendon said, and he nodded his head in an old-fashioned pretence at a bow.

Spencer inclined his head. "Thank you," he said, thinking again of the note from Wellington burning a hole in the pocket of his waistcoat. He hoped that he could speak with Brendon's grandfather early in the day so that he could organise their return to London and everything he knew. "Your hospitality has been very kind."

Brendon nodded again, and bit his lip, making some kind of gesture with his hand that could almost have been a wave. "Good night," he said again, and it was only as the door shut behind him and Spencer listened to Brendon's footsteps in the hallway that he realised Brendon had left his candle-lamp behind him.

  


Spencer sat by the fire and watched the minutes and the hours tick by on his pocket watch.

It was hard, in a house this size, to hear the movements of its few inhabitants, but Spencer judged that by two in the morning he should have free rein of the ground floor. He re-lit Brendon's candle-lamp from the guttered remains of the one mantelpiece candle he'd allowed to continue burning throughout the night, and he urged himself to his feet. His injured leg was stiff and painful and uncompromising; he leaned heavily on his stick and wished the pain away, if only for a half hour. It would make things so much easier if he could move freely, but he couldn't. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around him with some difficulty – he was having trouble standing without the assistance of his cane, and he swore under his breath as he struggled to tie the cord with just one hand – and opened his door a crack.

The house was in silence. Spencer kept to the edge of the hallway, moving slowly so he could see the stacks of papers and books that Brendon and his grandfather seemed to keep anywhere apart from the library. Once he had managed the stairs, he moved awkwardly down the hallway, carefully trying first one door, and then the next. There had to be a workshop or a laboratory or a study here _somewhere_. The library had been a mess of papers and half-read books, but Spencer was sure that wherever the old Mr. Urie worked had to at least show some evidence of his research and his science. His search of the library earlier in the day had shown nothing but studies of butterflies and botany.

He found nothing. There were a couple of morning rooms that appeared to be completely out of use; the furniture was covered with dust sheets and there was no sign of fire in any of the grates to suggest recent use. One room appeared to be the housekeeper's nook; there were keys hanging on hooks and a laundry book left open on the bureau. After a cursory glance through the bureau, Spencer found nothing but shopping lists and notes in a tiny, crabbed hand for removing wine from tablecloths. In one of the drawers was a well-thumbed novel, one of the ones he was sure was on the shelves in his mother's library. He slipped it noiselessly back into the drawer, and spent a little more time eyeing up the different keys hanging from the hooks in the woodwork; mostly they appeared fairly uniform, with nothing out of the ordinary. He fingered a couple, thinking. He traced the pattern of the lock with the pad of his thumb, and nodded to himself, before crossing the nook off his list of rooms to check out.

One room seemed like a possibility: it was clearly a study of some sort, and had been used recently, but apart from a tall, locked cupboard in one corner, there was nothing of any interest on any of the shelves. The desk drawers stood mostly empty, and the chair showed little of the wear and tear of the chairs in the dining room, but aside from that, the room had clearly been in use. The remains of a fire lay in the grate, and there was little dust on any of the shelves. A stack of bound papers lay on the windowsill, just sticking out from underneath the heavy, thick curtains, and when Spencer looked closer, he found it was a Royal Society pamphlet, the title reading: _Account of the Application of Gas from Coal to Economical Purposes, 1806._

Spencer cursed. This was his only evidence that Urie had even any knowledge of the Royal Society, and some twenty year old or so paper was hardly enough to suggest that Urie was working on flying contraptions in his spare time. He wanted to get into the cupboard in the corner, but Spencer never had been particularly skilled with his lock-pick, and this one looked particularly difficult. He ran his hand over the tired oak door, and paused for a moment at the lock, stroking his thumb over the keyhole. He rummaged in his pocket for his lock-pick, and was just about to start when he heard a noise in the hall outside.

His heart beat a little faster and he dropped the pick back into his pocket, leaning over to pick up the candle-lamp from the shelf next to the cupboard. He moved as quickly and as quietly as he could back over to the doorway; pressing his ear to the wall he listened, but heard nothing more. He slipped as silently as he could back into the hall, pulling the door to the study closed as quietly as he could manage at the same time as managing his cane and his candle-lamp.

Spencer heard the noise again, a little further away this time, further down the hall. It almost sounded like someone _humming_. He moved towards it, rather than away – the floorboards here were old and creaked like those on a ship, and Spencer knew he had little chance of getting away unheard, especially with his cane. Light curled around the part-open library door, and when he moved closer, he could see Brendon kneeling down in front of the fire, humming under his breath as he built the fire up.

Spencer tried to back away; he had no idea why Brendon was up in the middle of the night but he didn't exactly want to be caught out of bed. He stepped back, and hit a creaky floorboard.

"Who's there?" Brendon asked, quickly.

Spencer rolled his eyes, frustrated at himself. Things were so much easier when he didn't have his leg to contend with. "It is only me," he said, "Spencer Smith."

Brendon threw the door to the library open. He was in his nightclothes too, a thick woollen dressing gown pulled tightly closed around him. "Oh," he said in relief. "Could you not sleep either?"

"No," Spencer said, stupidly, for the hedgehog was curled up in the crook of Brendon's elbow. In the quiet after he had spoken, he thought he could discern the sound of the hedgehog snoring. It was decidedly strange. "I have been awake too long," he said, finally. "I fear my body has got used to being awake."

Brendon's face relaxed into a smile. "Come sit by the fire," he said. "You are just in time, for I have just got it burning. We could have tea. Or chocolate."

Spencer blinked. "Chocolate?"

"Mrs. Field knows I do not sleep," Brendon explained, closing the door behind them both. "She leaves milk for me."

Spencer nodded. That would likely explain the kettle and the cups on the mantel that Spencer had seen earlier and had merely thought were there for show. He should have known that so far nothing in this falling-down house was there for show. "Do you mind?" Spencer asked, awkwardly. "If you would rather be left alone -" he tailed off. He would very much like a cup of chocolate.

"No," Brendon said. "Please... I mean." He stopped. "I am very often alone," he said, finally. "It would be nice not to be."

Spencer did not answer. Instead, he leaned over and made room on the sofa in between the piles of half-read books and strange bits of metalwork so that he could sit down. He made heavy weather of it, the damaged muscles in his leg causing him some difficulty in sitting.

"Would you like tea, or chocolate?" Brendon asked, after a minute. He didn't offer to remove any of the clutter from the seats, and Spencer sat in between a stack of books and a pile of papers that seemed to discuss butterflies in great detail. The kitten slept curled up on an open book, one paw stretched out across an etching of a bird with blue tail-feathers.

"Chocolate," Spencer said, for he was a great fan of it, and for all Jon Dawes' skill as a manservant, his chocolate was never as good as he wished it was.

Brendon smiled in agreement, and the next few minutes were spent in companionable silence as Brendon fussed with the cups and the chocolate and the fire. When he passed over a cup for Spencer, it was warm, and sweet, and smelled faintly of something Spencer vaguely recognised. He wrinkled his nose, trying to place it.

"Cinnamon," Brendon said, hesitantly. "Do you like it?"

Spencer did. He savoured the taste, sweet and spicy. "It is very nice," he said, "but I have never heard of it with chocolate before."

"I experimented," Brendon explained. "I tried many flavours. Honey, for example, and capsicum."

Spencer blinked, and looked down at his cup. "Experimental," he said, and wondered.

Brendon busied himself with the fire. His hedgehog lay curled up in his lap, on a little blanket obviously belonging specifically to the tiny, spiny creature. "Do you drink chocolate in London?" he asked. "In coffee-houses?"

"Yes," Spencer said, and remembered the bitter, dark taste of the coffee he preferred. He didn't do much work outside of Whitehall anymore, but he had met with Kit Reinold on more than a few occasions, swapping carefully coded information in the guise of a conversation, slipping papers and notes to one another. He couldn't remember spending much time in such places otherwise.

"I have always wanted to go to a coffee-house," Brendon confided, poking the fire.

"It is not very exciting," Spencer told him.

Brendon shook his head. "It is," he said. "Everything that is not here is exciting."

Spencer took another sip of his chocolate, and wondered again if all was well with Brendon's grandfather.

  


Breakfast was a quiet affair. Brendon's grandfather's chair remained empty, and although Spencer offered to delay breakfast until he had returned, Brendon merely shook his head.

"He may be late," Brendon said, off-handedly, tipping a little water into a saucer for the hedgehog. "We shouldn't wait. He might not come back this morning."

Spencer sighed, and resolved to send word to Ausfield as soon as breakfast was over, to make him aware that there may be a problem. He had stayed up another half hour or so with Brendon the previous night, trying to nudge the conversation towards Brendon's grandfather and his work, but he had learnt nothing except that the elder Mr. Urie was inordinately fond of nature. In the end he had given up and gone to bed, and resolved upon meeting the man himself at breakfast.

  


Breakfast was thick slices of toasted bread. Dishes of butter and honey stood in between Spencer and Brendon at the table, and Spencer watched as Brendon dipped his knife in the honey before leaving a little on the side of his hedgehog's plate.

"Does he like honey?" Spencer asked, doubtfully.

"Yes," Brendon said. "I fear I should not give him it, but he does like it so. See?" Spencer watched as the hedgehog ignored the water in favour of the slither of honey; he lapped at it greedily, and Spencer could not help but smile.

"You are won over, I see," Brendon went on. He smiled, wide and broad, and tickled at the hedgehog's nose with the tip of his finger. "William," he said, softly, as the hedgehog nudged at his finger, "I think our guest is beginning to be enamoured of you."

Spencer did not know what to say. "He is a charming pet," he said, finally. Then, "Are you not worried for your grandfather? Does he often stay out at night?"

"He has been gone for almost a week," Mrs. Field interrupted, coming in with a great slab of plum cake. Spencer startled, for he was unused to the servants speaking freely. Even Dawes, who Spencer sometimes considered to be his closest acquaintance, rarely spoke in such familiar terms.

"Mrs. Field -" Brendon started, but she cut him off, leaning over them both and making room for the cake on the table. He looked bewildered. "It cannot have been so long."

"It has," Mrs. Field said, stoutly. "I've sent my boy out looking for any sign of him the last two days, but he says there's hide nor hair of him down by the river, or up on the hills in those shepherd's huts he likes to close himself off in. If he's gone further afield then he should have let us know, rather than letting us worry ourselves to death because he's taken himself off to look at butterflies or birds or whatever is his fascination this month."

"Otters," Brendon said, quietly. He shook his head. "I had not realised it had been so long. I should have kept a better count of the days -"

"He has been missing for a week?" Spencer asked, the plum cake forgotten. "Brendon, your grandfather has been missing for a _week_?"

Brendon nodded miserably. "It seems so."

"I'll get my boy to round up a search party," Mrs. Field said, slicing the plum cake into pieces bigger than Spencer's hand. "I don't know," she went on, shaking her head, "between you and your grandfather, you're going to send me to an early grave."

"Are you not worried?" Spencer asked.

Mrs. Field rolled her eyes and tutted as William tried to stand on his back paws and get into the honey jar. She batted him away gently, and the hedgehog nudged at her fingertips.

The supposed key to winning the war against Napoleon, and he hadn't been seen for a week? Spencer was worried, even though he still thought this whole thing was verging on the ridiculous. There was no evidence of plans for any dirigible or flying-craft in the house, but Spencer could not shake the idea that something was wrong, and that there was more to this than he had first anticipated.

"My grandfather is -" Brendon tailed off. "He's independent," he said, finally. "He is often away. He loses track of the time."

"He's bloody-minded, that's what he is," Mrs. Field told him. "Don't you go making excuses for him, a man of his age traipsing off across the moors and not coming back for a week. I'll give him a piece of my mind when he finally decides to come home. He'll be through those doors and begging me for a piece of cake and a pot of tea and no word of apology for disappearing for days on end -"

She looked to be readying herself for a spiel, and Brendon shot Spencer a brief, apologetic look. Spencer wasn't sure what Brendon was apologising for, but if it was failing to inform Spencer that his grandfather had been missing a _week_ , then Spencer wasn't sure the apology was enough. He remembered Ausfield telling him that the balance of the war could rest on this one man and his idea for a flying-craft, and however far removed he might feel, up here away from the hustle and bustle of London, he could still recognise the potential importance of this man and his designs.

Spencer had to send one of his coachmen off post-haste with a message for Ausfield. The Telegraph Station would have started work with the daylight, and if Spencer could get a message off now, Ausfield may still receive it by the end of the day. He was just about to beg forgiveness for removing to his room to write his note when the bell at the front door chimed.

Brendon and Mrs. Field looked startled. Spencer imagined that they didn't get many visitors here, if the state of the road leading up to the door was any indication.

"Maybe it is Grandfather," Brendon said, hopefully.

"He wouldn't need to ring," Mrs. Field said, wiping her hands on her apron before sweeping out into the hallway.

"You weren't expecting anyone?" Spencer asked, noticing how Brendon had tugged the square of blanket out from his waistcoat and bundled his hedgehog up, taking a moment to stroke William's nose before hiding him away in the pocket of his morning coat.

A moment later William's nose poked out of the top of the pocket, and Brendon absently let him lick the honey from the tip of his finger before smoothing down his shirt. Brendon shook his head. "Nobody," he said. He paused, his fingers tapping a syncopated rhythm against the edge of the tablecloth. "We do not often see people here."

Spencer had realised that much. He wondered if it was news of Brendon's grandfather, and he stood up, already anxious.

After a minute, Mrs. Field re-entered the dining room. "It is the vicar," she said, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. "I have put him in the library."

Brendon started. "What can he want?"

"Likely as not, donations for the new church window," Mrs. Field said. "Mealy-mouthed, despicable little man."

"Mrs. Field," Brendon said, reprovingly.

"I'm not saying a word that isn't true," she said, shaking her head. "Should I send him away?"

"No," Brendon said, after a moment. "I will see him as Grandfather is not here. Would you bring some tea?" He turned to Spencer. "Excuse me."

Spencer nodded his head in the manner of a bow. He had to send his note to Ausfield, but he fully intended on eavesdropping if he could. He was confused as hell by what was going on; apparently in this house lay the secret to winning this war, but Spencer just couldn't find the evidence Ausfield seemed so sure was here. There was nothing to suggest that Brendon's grandfather's disappearance was due to anything other than him wandering the moors – certainly it seemed nothing out of the ordinary to those that knew him, and no one seemed unduly worried, but it still seemed more than odd. If someone other than Ausfield and the War Office knew of Brendon's grandfather's work, someone who may leak the information to the French, then Urie was in grave danger. The possibility seemed far-fetched, but Spencer had been in the business of espionage for too many years to forget that spies were everywhere, and the potential for danger was around every corner.

He waited until he heard the door into the kitchen at the end of the hall close, and until he heard the murmur of voices from inside the library before sneaking out into the hall. He kept to the edges, careful not to make a sound, and positioned himself next to the table stacked high with boxes of neatly pinned butterflies and beetles, with tiny, crabbed notes pinned beneath each of them. He shuddered at the beetles. He'd never liked them, and seeing display cases full of them was closer than he wanted to be to them, even if they were dead.

Through the crack in the still-open library door, Spencer could see the back of Brendon's shoulder, taut and still, and beyond that, the sleeve of the man Spencer could only presume was the vicar. He pressed himself back against the wall and listened.

"We have not seen you at church these past months, Mr. Urie," the vicar was saying. His voice was a little higher than Spencer had expected, a soft edge to his words as he admonished Brendon. "God notices your absence."

"I am sorry," Brendon said, stiltedly.

Spencer rolled his eyes. He attended church as a matter of course when he was at home in the country, and in town when he wasn't required in the office with Ausfield. He was used to the sermonising of vicars, even though the vicar in his home parish was a family friend and had graced their dinner table with his presence many times over the years, and Spencer already knew it was unlikely that he'd learn anything from listening in to a conversation such as this. He stayed where he was, though, formulating an excuse should he be caught.

"We are concerned for your soul, Mr. Urie," the vicar was saying, and Spencer drifted off as the vicar began to speak of Brendon's mortality and his inevitable meeting with St. Peter. He had heard such sermons many times before.

"I do not -" Brendon took a ragged breath. "I do not believe," he said finally, and Spencer stood up straighter. It was highly unusual for someone to admit to such a thing. Even those people who Spencer occasionally came across who rarely attended church for some reason or another tended not to admit to such a thing. "I do not attend because I do not wish to." His voice wavered, but he stood tall; Spencer watched him carefully through the open doorway, his back straight and his shoulders straight.

"God will welcome you back into the fold," the vicar said, gently. "God loves all of His Children, even those who tread upon the wrong path. Salvation is not found outside of the Church, my son."

Brendon shook his head. "I thank you for coming here," he said, after a moment. "I appreciate that you wish the best for me, but my salvation is not to be found inside your church."

"You should not speak so of the Lord, the devil speaks within you," the vicar told him, his voice rising.

"He does not," Brendon said. Spencer had not heard Brendon so defiant before. "My grandfather and I have no need for you. I thank you for your time."

"Your grandfather is not here," the vicar said, "you should use this time to think of his heretical teachings and see the error in what he says. We will welcome you back to the flock, my son."

"You are not my father," Brendon said, shortly, and Spencer wondered what had happened to Brendon's parents that had left him here, in the middle of nowhere with only his grandfather for company. "And my grandfather is not what you are painting him to be. He is a good man." There was a long pause, and when Spencer looked up, he saw Mrs. Field at the other end of the hallway, holding the tea tray, watching him. Spencer stiffened but didn't move. Neither did she. Inside the library there came the sound of the vicar gathering together his belongings. Brendon said, "I'll show you out."

Spencer did not have time to hide himself, nor could he, not with Mrs. Field watching him as she did. Instead, he stood as tall as he could, leaning on his cane, and watched the vicar follow Brendon down the hall. Brendon ducked his head and did not meet Spencer's gaze.

Mrs. Field watched Spencer for a moment after Brendon and the vicar had rounded the corner. "I'm not sure why you're here," she said, finally, "but I trust it is not to make trouble?"

Spencer thought of the letter from Wellington in the pocket of his waistcoat, and the urgent dispatch he needed to get off to London as soon as he could get it down on paper. He thought about how obvious it was that Brendon was lonely and alone. "I am not here to make things difficult for anyone," he said, finally, and bowed his head as Mrs. Field nodded and turned back around towards the kitchen.

When Brendon came back down the hall towards Spencer, his hands were shaking.

"I heard raised voices," Spencer lied. "I did not mean to eavesdrop. I'm sorry."

"No, it is I who should be sorry," Brendon said, awkwardly. "you should not have had to hear that. If you would rather not stay here and wait for Grandfather -"

Spencer puzzled for a moment. "It is no business of mine," he said, quietly. "Your hospitality has been extremely kind and I will not remove myself unless my being here is inconvenient for you."

Brendon's face relaxed. "I am glad of the company," he admitted, in a halting voice, and Spencer realised that if he removed Brendon's grandfather to London as Ausfield planned, then Brendon would be all alone here with only Mrs. Field for company. He swallowed, and realised he had been glad of the company too; he could not remember the last time he had been able to converse with someone that wasn't family in this manner. He had forgotten the freedom of companionship, and acknowledging it was a sad and lonely truth.

Spencer forced a smile, and after a moment, excused himself to his room to write his dispatch.

  


The day passed slowly. Spencer sent his first Telegraph to Ausfield by way of one of his coachmen; Thomas took one of the horses and set off for the Telegraph Station post-haste. The Telegraph system had been installed up and down the country ten years ago, and although it had its obvious disadvantages, particularly in winter, when daylight – such as it was – reduced the Telegraph's working hours down to merely a few, it had revolutionised communication. It meant that Spencer had only to be without his man a few hours, rather than days, for a start, and it also meant that he could keep in relatively easy contact with Ausfield and the War Office. If Urie's house had been closer to the nearest station in Bradford, then Telegraphing would have been even easier. As it was, Spencer had to send his man out across the moors, and await his return.

He dispatched his other coachman, Frederick, out after Mrs. Field's son, Sam, to determine the state of the search party for Brendon's grandfather. Frederick promised to be back by sundown to report. Spencer watched Frederick depart, and wished he could go himself. He sighed, and slowly made his way back to the house.

Brendon was nowhere to be found, so Spencer took it upon himself to make a thorough search of the library and the ground floor beyond. Aside from a larger than expected collection of scurrilous but popular novels – the kind that Spencer tended to find in his mother's or his sisters' collection, and of which he had read more than his fair share himself – the shelves seemed mostly to consist of worthy works of botany or geology or nature. There was nothing of the science that Ausfield had promised. Spencer had seen the copied letters himself! He knew that Brendon's grandfather had been a regular correspondent and contributor to the Royal Society prior to his self-imposed exile thirty years earlier. He had been a renowned scientist, but there was nothing in the house to suggest that the old man knew anything of science beyond the nature and the botany his bookshelves contained. It was frustrating and time-consuming, and Spencer was tired and his leg ached.

He ate lunch by himself, and although Mrs. Field laid a place for Brendon, he did not appear. Spencer waited, but there was no sign of him. Mrs. Field brought him tea to finish, and he sat with one eye out the window, wondering where his coachmen were and how far Thomas had got on the journey to the Telegraph Station. Telegraphing came with its own problems – the possibility of error after error as his message was relayed south between one Telegraph Station and the next, for one, which was particularly worrisome for Spencer, whose real message was embedded deep in an encrypted code. It was especially worrying since the coded meaning could change significantly with a simple error in the plain text. He had seen for himself the mistakes that could happen when a spy couldn't make head nor tail of his instructions. He longed for the day the loco-motives would bring the country closer together. Once the rails had been laid between London and the north, the journey time would be more than halved, or so he was promised. Loco-motives were going to revolutionise the isle, or so they said, and messages could be relayed by hand without worry of the kind of mistakes that a Telegraph full of errors could cause.

Spencer had trouble believing that there were such machines that could pull a carriage across the country without horses, but that was what they were saying. The Stockton and Darlington railway had already carried its first passengers, and the drawings in the newspaper had seemed nonsensical and imaginary to Spencer, reading of them deep in a coffee-house in London, waiting for Kit Reinold to appear, missive in hand. Spencer decided he would believe it when he saw it, like he would believe that the secret to the winning of this cursed war with Napoleon was buried somewhere in this house only when it appeared before his eyes.

Spencer sighed, and let his cup rest against his saucer. He eyed the matching saucer in the centre of the table, with the tiny bowl of seeds alongside that seemed to belong to the hedgehog and the hedgehog alone. He had not known before now that hedgehogs could be _pets_ , as such, although William seemed to be a very friendly little chap, and Brendon was clearly devoted to him. The tiny creature seemed very content to be buried in Brendon's pockets as a way of being transported around with his master.

He briefly considered the idea of a pet for his rooms in London, maybe a dog. His mother had had a lapdog once, an ugly pug named Humphrey who had been very friendly despite his propensity to sneeze in one's face at the most inopportune moments. Spencer had spent many hours out in the gardens with his sisters, playing games with the petted and spoiled dog. The pug had died some years ago, and Spencer still remembered having to excuse himself so that no one saw his distress on hearing that Humphrey had passed away.

Spencer couldn't run after a pet any more. Sighing, he left the tea cup on the table and reached for his cane. He was determined to explore the upper floor, and the attics, if he could find an entry point.

Barely any of the rooms upstairs were inhabited; room after room revealed nothing but dust-sheets and the cold, damp scent of emptiness and disuse. He pulled back sheets and looked under long unused beds, but all he found were similarly long unused chamber pots and a discarded handkerchief with the initials 'BBU' stitched into a corner. He slid it into his pocket, choosing not to think about _why_ , and continued to investigate.

He found what he thought to be Brendon's grandfather's room after a while. There were the clean but undeniable remains of a fire in the grate, and a series of prints on the wall of the life cycle of a butterfly. There were no papers in any of the drawers, and aside from a collection of rather old-fashioned and somewhat faded shirts in the wardrobe, nothing of any interest. He sighed, and slipped out into the hall, leaning against his cane for a moment as his leg twinged. This kind of search was quicker and easier achieved without the impediment of a damaged leg. For a moment he longed for the relative peace and quiet of his office below Whitehall, but after a minute the pain in his leg subsided and he was able to move down the corridor towards the last remaining room on this side of the house.

Spencer felt sure that this was Brendon's bedroom. The carpet outside was faded and worn, and the door handle shone from years of use. He knocked, one ear close to the door, but he couldn't hear anything within. "Brendon?" he asked, softly. He tried the handle, and it opened easily. He checked the hall, and heard not a sound. He slipped inside, and closed the door behind him.

The room was definitely Brendon's. A wooden box sat by the fireplace lined with blankets; it was clearly either the resting place of the kitten or of the hedgehog. The wardrobe door stood open, and Spencer sneaked a look inside, using his cane to zigzag across the floor of the wardrobe to see if there was anything hidden there. The clothes hanging in the wardrobe were old-fashioned and faded, and obviously repaired over and over. Spencer fingered the careful stitching at the elbow of one of the shirts and he wondered for a moment if Brendon was especially clumsy with his clothing. He ran his hands over the pockets, but aside from a handful of metalwork that Spencer recognised from the library the previous day, there was nothing of any interest.

The room was sparsely decorated. Aside from the wardrobe and the bed, piled high with blankets, there was a chair by the fire and a chest of drawers under the window with a bowl and a jug on top for washing. Brendon's shaving kit lay where he had clearly left it that morning, strewn across the top of the drawers, the brush on its side, dripping soap down on to the wood. Spencer wanted to right it, but he stopped himself. He rifled through the drawers, but aside from the neat piles of vests and underwear, he came across nothing but a hairbrush and one of the scurrilous novels of which Brendon was clearly a fan. Spencer had read many himself, over the years. He sighed, looking around.

On the bedside table lay another one of the novels, and badly hidden inside, a pamphlet that Spencer recognised immediately as French. His interest piqued, he pulled it out to get a better look, holding the page in Brendon's book with his thumb. _Memoire sur l'equilbre des Machines Aerostatique_ , he read, _1783_ , by Lieutenant Jean Baptiste Marie Meusnier. Spencer spoke French fairly fluently, and was able to translate the title with relative ease - _Memorandum on the Balance of Aerostatic Machines_.

Spencer's hand stilled. This was Brendon's room, not that of his grandfather. Brendon was reading this, not his grandfather. _Brendon_.

Startled by a sound from the staircase, he quickly folded the pamphlet into two and slid it back inside the novel, before creeping back to the door and out into the hallway. He was able to get around the corner before whoever was coming up the stairs turned into the hall, although it was close. It would look as if he were coming from his bedroom. Straightening his shoulders he came back around the corner to meet Brendon coming the other way, carrying his hedgehog in one hand and being followed by a distinctly disapproving cat.

"Good afternoon," Spencer said, for he was sure that Brendon had not seen him. Brendon jerked his head up, and Spencer saw what was clearly a smudge of oil across his cheek. He smelt like fire, like coal and flame and Spencer swallowed back a breath. His goggles – the same ones he had been wearing the day before, when Spencer had first met him – were around his neck, resting grubbily against Brendon's shirt collar.

"Oh," Brendon said, in clear surprise. "Mr. Smith."

"Mr. Urie," Spencer said, his mind whirling. There was no doubt at all that Brendon's grandfather _had_ been a renowned scientist, thirty years ago, but there was no evidence to suggest that his current interest lay anywhere else but with wildlife and the natural world. The handful of metalwork in Brendon's pocket, coupled with what Spencer had just discovered in Brendon's bedroom, was at least enough to suggest that things may not be so clear cut as Spencer had initially thought. "I didn't see you at luncheon."

"I -" Brendon looked startled, as if he hadn't even realised he'd missed a meal. "I am sorry you had to eat alone," he said, finally, composing himself. William crawled across Brendon's palm, nosing at the cuff of Brendon's shirt. He nipped at it with his teeth, and Brendon had to tug it out of William's grip. "I'm sorry," he said again, but this time he was holding out the hedgehog for Spencer to take. "Would you mind holding him for a moment? I must roll up my sleeves else he will make holes in my shirt again, and Mrs. Field hates it when that happens."

Spencer blinked, holding out his free hand without taking a moment to understand what he was doing. A second later, there was a disgruntled hedgehog sitting a-top Spencer's palm, and it was the oddest feeling. His spines scratched at Spencer's skin, but it wasn't painful. It was more like a tickle, and Spencer felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up in surprise as William curled up, spines out.

"He is all curled up," Spencer said, in wonder. He did not know why he was so surprised, considering that this was what hedgehogs _did_.

"He is grumpy," Brendon said, struggling to manage his shirt cuffs with the kitten winding its way around his ankles. "He is a bad-tempered little thing if he does not get his own way."

"Like I am sometimes," Spencer said, without thinking. After his accident he had been terrible, constantly snapping and shouting and hating everything and everyone. More recently and less justifiably, he had taken to being particularly bad-tempered in the mornings, grumpy and snappish and easy to anger.

Brendon looked at him in surprise. "I am too," he said, after a moment, leaning in as if to confide a great secret. He smelled warm and a little sweaty underneath the scent of the fire and the flame.

Spencer's cheeks felt warm, all of a sudden, and he busied himself with the hedgehog instead, unwilling to face Brendon's scrutiny. William was no longer curled up, and was instead nosing at Spencer's palm.

"See?" Brendon said, with a smile, tugging his sleeves up to his elbows. He didn't seem to have noticed the strange flush to Spencer's cheeks, or the way Spencer was looking at him and thinking, _Aerostatic Machines_ , as if this whole confusion could be cleared up here and now, just by wishing. There was a stripe of oil up the inside of Brendon's wrist, and a strange, unfamiliar warmth in Spencer's chest. "He may be a grumpy little thing, but he comes around. He wants to be your friend, look."

Spencer looked down, and William was nudging at his sleeve. It tickled, and it felt strange, this spiky, tiny, inquisitive creature in his hand. Brendon leaned over and cupped William between his open palms, taking him back and holding him close to his chest, not seeming to care that the hedgehog was a creature with _spines_.

Spencer's heart raced. He couldn't take it in, Brendon's proximity, the discovery of the French pamphlet on Brendon's bedside table – the scurrilous novels – the very idea that _Brendon_ may be the reason he was here, and not his grandfather. He was confused and his leg hurt and he was very much aware that he wasn't doing his job properly.

"Did you find employment this afternoon?" Brendon asked, after a moment. "I am sorry to have left you alone. Sometimes the time just gets away from me. I am lucky that Mrs. Field reminds me to eat."

"I explored," Spencer said, since he had always found the best lies were the ones that were closest to the truth. "It was good to be able to walk around after so long travelling."

"I am glad," Brendon said. The hedgehog was doing his very best to crawl up to Brendon's shoulder, and Brendon was letting him, even going so far as to help him up. The hedgehog took the opportunity to look about him, before nudging at Brendon's ear with his nose.

Spencer cleared his throat, and tried not to watch in fascination as the hedgehog perched quite happily on Brendon's shoulder and continued to nose at Brendon's ear. "Is there any news of your grandfather?" He had not heard that Thomas or Frederick had returned, so he imagined that the search party – such as it was – was still out on the hills, and that Thomas was on his way back from the Telegraph Station. Although Spencer knew of no one who knew of the flying-craft besides him and Ausfield and Wellington, he could not shed the heavy belief that Brendon's grandfather was in danger. But from who? And where was he?

"Nothing yet," Brendon said. "He has probably lost track of time," he went on, leaning down to scratch the kitten behind the ears. The kitten purred, loudly and obnoxiously, an orange ball of fluff with an ugly face and four orange paws. Spencer had yet to be as enamoured of the cat as he secretly was of the hedgehog, but it was a close-run thing as the kitten wound its way around Spencer's ankles, purring. "I am sure that there is nothing to worry about."

"I need to ask you some questions," Spencer said, finally. "About what your grandfather was working on, just in case there is something more to his disappearance than there appears."

Brendon shook his head. "Like what?" he asked. "No, my grandfather is just holed up somewhere, taking notes. There is nothing to worry about. He wishes to write about the otters, but he is not sure anyone would want to read it apart from myself."

"How is he managing for food?" Spencer asked, trying not to concentrate on the sad look in Brendon's eyes as he confided his grandfather's hopes. "It has been some days now. Surely you are worried about him."

"No," Brendon said, obstinately. "He knows all the shepherd's huts between here and heaven knows where. He will beg food of them, if necessary. He will not go hungry."

"But what if he is hurt?" Spencer persevered. Brendon's grandfather was an old man, Brendon must be worried about that possibility. Spencer just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

"He won't be," Brendon said stoutly.

Spencer blinked. "I really think –" he started, but they were interrupted by the peal of the door-bell echoing around the house.

"See," Brendon said, and Spencer was quick to notice the relief that passed across Brendon's face. "See, that will be the search party, with news."

Spencer was not so sure, but he followed Brendon back down the landing. He could not move as quickly as Brendon, especially down stairs, and by the time he reached the hall, disappointment was already etched across Brendon's face.

It was not the search party, but Thomas, returned from the Telegraph Station. "Message for you, sir," Thomas said, holding out a Telegraph envelope to Spencer. Thomas took on the guise of coachman and servant well. "It arrived from London this morning, but there weren't enough Telegraph men to come all the way out here."

Spencer nodded, holding his hand out. "There is no message from the search party?" he asked, and Brendon shook his head.

"Nothing," Brendon said, and he this time he couldn't hide the worry. "It has been so long," he said, a trace of desperation edging his words. "Surely there must be news by now."

Spencer swallowed. "How is your horse, Thomas?" he asked. "Has he energy enough to ride out after the search party and find news?"

Thomas shook his head. "No, sir, but Freddie left his horse here this morning and set out on one of Sam Field's; I could saddle the mare up and go find news."

"I should have gone with them," Brendon said, miserably. He hugged his hedgehog to his chest, the kitten having disappeared somewhere on his own adventure. "I should be out there, helping find Grandfather."

"You can help tomorrow, if there is no news," Spencer said, nodding at Thomas as if to say _yes, go after them_. Thomas made a cursory attempt at a bow and disappeared back out the front door, and round towards the stables. Spencer turned his attention back to Brendon. "Come, let us sit down in the library. Mrs. Field can bring you tea." He was worried by the pale tint to Brendon's skin, and also, he longed to read his Telegraph. "Thomas will go after Frederick and the search party and will bring what news they have. He is an expert horseman, Brendon, quick and fast to pick up a trail." Spencer didn't bother explaining why Thomas was such an expert. "It will not take him long to find out if they have news of your grandfather.

Brendon nodded sadly, and Spencer urged him towards the library, and a cup of hot tea.

  


The Telegraph – whilst appearing long and overly wordy to the naked eye - was short and to the point. Underneath the plain text, embedded deep within a cypher known only to Spencer and Ausfield, it said that one of their spies had turned double agent, feeding information out of the war office to Napoleon, but Ausfield didn't know who. _The threat comes from within, Spencer read. Trust no one, await further instructions by messenger, and keep Urie safe at all costs_.

Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his mind a whirl. If flying-craft really did hold the key to winning this damned war, then the inventor of them really would be in danger from anyone working for Napoleon. If there was a spy in the War Office, if one of Ausfield's agents had been stealing information and turning it over to Napoleon, then the ultimate test of their loyalty would be bringing the key to winning the war to Napoleon. Or failing the actual key, the inventor himself.

If the double agent had access to the information coming in and out of the Royal Society, then Brendon's grandfather really was in danger, and he had been for some time.

Spencer's blood ran cold. If he was right in his suspicions about the pamphlet in Brendon's bedroom, then Brendon's grandfather wasn't the one that they wanted.

They would want _Brendon_.

If Brendon's grandfather had been kidnapped, and whoever it was realised that they had the wrong man, then Brendon's grandfather would be killed. He might already be dead, and Brendon was in danger.

Spencer stuffed the Telegraph into the pocket of his coat. "Brendon," he said, urgently. "These letters to the Royal Society. Your grandfather hasn't been the one sending them, has he? It was you. You wrote the letters about the flying-craft. The dirigibles are your designs, not your grandfather's."

Brendon dropped his teacup. His hedgehog, scared, curled up into a ball in Brendon's lap. That had to hurt, Spencer thought, all those spines.

"What?" Brendon said, shakily. Then, "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Brendon," Spencer said again. "I was sent here to persuade your grandfather to come to London where we could protect him, and protect his work," he said. "I showed you the letter from Wellington. I'm an officer in His Majesty's War Office, and it came to our attention that your letters to the Royal Society contained information that may be pertinent to the war effort. Wellington considered the idea of flying-craft of supreme importance. He believed in them and he believed they could win the war for us, if we could only get airborne." He stopped, running his hand through his hair. Brendon was pale and wide-eyed, chewing on his bottom lip as Spencer spoke.

"Your grandfather is missing," Spencer went on, "and I have reason to believe that he may have been kidnapped for what he is supposed to know about flying-craft." Brendon's skin was pale-white and glistening with sweat. He clutched the saucer so tightly Spencer worried it might break. "But there's nothing here to suggest your grandfather has any interest in flying craft at all," Spencer said, and Brendon's gaze flicked to his, just for a moment, and Spencer knew deep down inside that he was right. "There's barely any evidence to suggest that you have, either," he went on, "but it is you, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you think you know," Brendon said, steadily, even though his hand was shaking, holding William close, "but if you know where my grandfather is -"

"I don't," Spencer said. "I don't know where your grandfather is, or who's taken him, but I do know this. It's someone clever enough to both read your letters to the Royal Society _and_ understand their potential. It's someone with the ability to break codes and someone ruthless enough to betray their country to Napoleon, and it's someone who is going to figure out at some point that your grandfather isn't the person who wrote those letters."

"What if -" Brendon stumbled over his words. "What if I had written those letters, if it was _my_ work and not my grandfather's -" he didn't say anything else, looking down at his lap.

Spencer swallowed. "Then it is you that I am sent here to protect," he said, softly. "It is your work we need to take to London, and it is you that Wellington wishes to finance and support. It's you," he finished, softly. His heart beat fast in his chest.

"How did you find out?" Brendon asked, after a minute. The hedgehog was uncurling himself slowly, nosing inquisitively at Brendon's palm. Brendon seemed almost not to notice.

" _Memoire sur l'equilbre des Machines Aerostatique_ ," Spencer said, remembering the pamphlet stuffed inside the novel on Brendon's bedside table.

Brendon nodded. He didn't say anything about Spencer being in his bedroom. "I try to keep it out of the house," he explained. "My grandfather gave up science when he gave up the Royal Society, before I was born. He does not like to hear it spoken of. He is all about nature, now." He looked across at Spencer. "Where is he? Do you think he is alright?"

Spencer didn't know. He didn't know anything, and he had no idea who would have betrayed them and turned double agent, traitor to the crown. He kept thinking about who it might be, mentally going through a list of all the people he knew worked for Ausfield. He only knew of the agents he'd come into direct contact with; so many people were working so undercover that they were known only to their field agent and maybe Ausfield himself. It could be anyone, but whoever it was, they would be desperate. "I don't know," he said, finally. "I hope so."

"Well," Brendon said, "where are we going to start looking?"

Spencer knew he had to say that they weren't, that his priority was getting Brendon and his research – wherever it might be – to London, under the protection of Wellington and Ausfield, and away from the danger here in Yorkshire. Spencer couldn't protect both of them without assistance. He swallowed. "We need to get you and your work to London," he said, finally. "As soon as possible, without delay. As soon as whoever has your grandfather realises that he's of no use to them, then he's going to come back here, and when that happens, you need to be away from here, safe."

"Wait," Brendon said. "You're suggesting I leave here, and leave Grandfather at the mercy of whoever has kidnapped him, thinking he was _me_?"

"Brendon," Spencer said, carefully. "It is believed that your flying-craft may win the war for England. You may hold the key to ending the hold Napoleon has over the isle, and I can't risk your safety for anyone, even your grandfather." Sometimes Spencer hated his job. Now was one of those times, but he was well-trained, even if he wasn't very good.

"I won't leave him," Brendon said, fiercely. "If you think I would, then, then you're _wrong_. He brought me up, and I won't leave here without him."

Spencer shook his head. "I know this is hard," he said, "but tell me, do you think you could build a craft that flies?"

Brendon didn't say anything for a moment. "Given the right materials," he said, finally. "I think so."

"What materials," Spencer said. "Because whatever they are, whatever you need, we'll get them for you. We'll pay you what you want."

"I don't want your money," Brendon said, tightly. "I just want my grandfather back."

"I know," Spencer said. He sat down slowly, easing himself onto the edge of the sofa, leaning his cane up against the table. If it had been a member of _his_ family, he would have refused to leave them too. He didn't know what to do for the best. "I understand. I'm sorry."

"I won't leave him," Brendon said, again.

Spencer didn't say he had no idea where Brendon's grandfather was being held, or who was holding him or whether he was still alive, or how he was to rescue him when he could barely ride a horse. He didn't say that Brendon's security was of national importance, because Spencer still didn't truly believe that it _was_. To believe that, he had to believe that flying-craft were a real possibility, and some part of his brain still refused to accept that they were anything more than a fantasy.

"Will you show me?" he asked, after a minute. Brendon had tipped a little of the tea from the pot into his saucer; the hedgehog cautiously unfurled and, still grumpy, nosed at the saucer hungrily. As Spencer watched, Brendon broke off a piece of cherry cake, and let William eat it from his fingers. Spencer refused to be surprised that Brendon fed his hedgehog on tea and cake. "Show me your research? Your flying-craft."

Brendon watched the fire for a moment. "Yes," he said, after a while. "If you promise you'll help me find my grandfather."

Spencer tried to imagine what it would be like, in a world filled with flying-craft. He couldn't. "Will it work?" he asked, finally. "Can it even be possible that we can fly?"

Brendon stroked his hedgehog's nose. "I think so," he said. "The calculations seem to say so, and so do my tests. The prototype hasn't been tested yet, but it should."

"Alright," Spencer said, a minute later. He wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing. He only knew that wherever Brendon's grandfather was, if he had been kidnapped, then he was being held by a traitor, and Spencer couldn't promise what would happen when – if – they found him. He could barely promise anything. "I promise. I'll help you find your grandfather."

Brendon didn't say anything, his shoulders slumped.

He must be so worried , Spencer thought, and he wanted to reach out and cover Brendon's hand with his own. He didn't. Instead, he said, "Man-kind, up in the air." It didn't seem real. "How does it fly?"

"A steam-powered engine," Brendon told him. He fed a little more cherry cake to the hedgehog, who grabbed it hungrily, and wolfed it down. Spencer felt a little hungry himself, and reached for a piece. Brendon had cut the cake into large slabs, and had taken a slice so large it hung over the edge of the plate and dripped crumbs onto his lap, where William scurried to and fro, eating them up.

"Like the loco-motives on the Stockton Darlington line?" Spencer asked, in surprise. They had looked very large, and very heavy, from the pictures in the newspaper.

Brendon hummed. "A little," he said, breaking off a piece of cake. He still looked worried, a furrow in between his brows, his skin pale and lined with concern. "The idea of the external combustion engine is the same, but I've worked out a way to balance the weight against the pressure -" he tailed off. "This isn't getting my grandfather back," he said.

"You should show me your work," Spencer said. "We can make a start packing it up, and then we can join the search party in the morning." Spencer didn't say that he thought this was a fruitless task. He didn't say anything, just standing up and following Brendon down the hall, towards the room that Spencer had thought was a recently-used study.

It was much the same as the last time Spencer had seen it, in the middle of the previous night. The same paper on coal power still peeked out from under the curtain, the same locked cupboard stood in the corner of the room.

It was in front of the cupboard that Brendon stopped, fumbling in his pocket for the key. He put William inside his waistcoat as he fiddled with the lock; it clearly needed oiling and it creaked open noisily.

Brendon pulled open the door.

It wasn't a cupboard, as Spencer had thought. There were no shelves. It was built into the wall, and at the back was another door, locked again. This one seemed equally in need of oil, and Spencer wondered if there was another entrance, somewhere with doors that didn't make so much noise when they were opened. Brendon pushed open the second door and led Spencer down a flight of old stone steps.

It was dark, and more than a little cold. The light from Brendon's candle-lamp didn't go far, especially when he pulled the doors closed behind them again, locking them from the inside.

Spencer didn't say that Brendon must already have been worried about security, if he needed two locked doors between the rest of the house and his workshop. He didn't say anything, slowly and haltingly following Brendon down a long brick corridor that sloped downward, deep beneath the house.

"Sorry about the dark," Brendon said, obviously quite at ease with the darkness, the flickering of his tiny candle-lamp lighting little more than the floor beneath their feet, and nothing of what lay in front of them.

Spencer's cane tap-tapped against the stone floor beneath their feet. "It's fine," Spencer said, who had done more than his fair share of work under the cover of darkness. Not to say that he didn't prefer the light.

"I had to redirect the pipework," Brendon explained, which Spencer didn't fully understand. They were still walking on a slight downward slope, and it was only when Brendon stopped short, in front of a heavy oak door, and Spencer stopped counting steps and bends in the passageway, that Spencer realised that they had walked further than the length of the house. "It'll be lighter once we get inside, and we can use the gas-lights."

Spencer blinked. So far Brendon's house had been lit entirely from candle-lamps. They were so far out in the country that Spencer had dismissed it as merely too far from the gas supply.

Brendon turned the key in the lock, and Spencer wanted to offer to hold something – the lamp, perhaps, or the hedgehog, who had somehow found himself back out of Brendon's waistcoat and into his hand again.

"Here," Brendon said, hesitantly, pushing the door open. "In here."

It was still dark apart from the candle-lamp, but despite that, Spencer could feel the sheer size of the room they were in. "Oh, my," he said, under his breath. Their footsteps echoed. It smelled like coal fire and smoke and steam.

Brendon was fumbling with something by the wall, muttering under his breath, and after a second came the hiss and the pop of a gas-light. First one, then another, then another, and all around the room, one lamp after another, lighting up the length of the room. Spencer blinked against the sudden brightness.

  


He had never seen anything like this place. It was incredible. The space they were in was both tall and long, a series of four adjoining arches of red brick stretching out far beneath what must have been Brendon's garden. Spencer couldn't make head nor tail of any of the drawings on the walls, or the long tables that went the length of the room, all covered in metalwork and cogs and springs and lengths of cloth and wood and all manner of things that Spencer couldn't put a name to.

In the middle of the room was what had to be a partially constructed dirigible.

"Oh," Spencer breathed. This was real. This was happening. This was a flying-craft, right there in front of him, magnificent and magical and _real_.

"Do you like it?" Brendon asked shyly. He had moved so he was standing close to Spencer's arm, and when he spoke, he leaned in closer. Spencer's skin prickled. "It's a prototype. Not actual size, of course."

He swallowed. "It's beautiful," Spencer said, softly, because it _was_. He blinked a couple of times, but when he opened his eyes, it was still there, a long, oval skeleton made of wood with heavy, thick material stretched across the panels. There looked to be a rudder partially attached, like the ones Spencer had seen at the shipyards, and from the roof hung something that looked like the sails on a windmill. "Did you do all of this by yourself?"

"My grandfather helped sometimes," Brendon said. "He was proud of me," he went on, "but he would be angry if he knew that I had contacted the Royal Society. He never forgave them for not believing in his ideas for flight in the first place."

"What is this place?" Spencer asked looking around. "Did your grandfather build it?"

Brendon shook his head. "It housed a regiment of Cavaliers during the Civil War," he explained, proudly. Spencer knew that all across the country were fortified hiding places where groups of local men had formed their militias to fight during the time of Cromwell. Some of them had been re-commissioned and belonged to the War Office, but they were mostly hidey-holes, small and cramped and secret. Never had Spencer seen one like this before, so large and so well hidden.

"And now you work in here," he said.

"My grandfather did first," Brendon said. He blew out the candle-lamp, and walked over to the dirigible. He stroked at the wood with one hand, just like he did with his hedgehog. "He still worked a little when I was a child, but he became less and less interested. He was so angry at the Society, and then he started getting interested in nature. He stopped coming down here after a while. Sometimes I would sneak down here when he was busy somewhere else, and I started reading his notes, and fiddling with his things. He found out, but he wasn't angry. He taught me everything he knew." He stopped for a moment, leaning forward so that his forehead was resting against the wooden skeleton. When he looked back, his eyes were wet. "He's all I have in the world," he said, and there was a lump in Spencer's throat too, damn it. "We have to find him."

"We'll do our best," Spencer told him, but right now, he didn't have a single idea where to start.

Brendon nodded, and hurriedly wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. Spencer looked the other way for a moment, taking in the drawings that lined the walls. They were of dirigibles, of rudders and sails and engines and covered in Brendon's tiny, crabbed handwriting. His heart felt tight in his chest, and his breath hitched as he realised what it was he was seeing.

Flying machines. The future. Brendon's vision.

It was breathtaking.

"We should start," he said, finally. There were boxes here, poking out from under the tables, wooden crates already lined with straw. Brendon had clearly been receiving materials from somewhere, and these were the packing crates. They would hold the plans, at least, and whatever Brendon thought was essential to get him started in London. One box held a stack of old newspapers, and when Spencer reached for one, some of the headlines shouted about the repeal of the sodomy laws, others the Freedom of Marriage Act, defining marriage as a coupling between any two persons regardless of sex. The newspapers had to be at least ten years old, then. They would do for packing materials.

"Hmm?" Brendon said. He was leaning back over the dirigible again, reaching for his goggles and running his hand over the joints. His hedgehog sat curled into his waistcoat, only his nose visible.

"We need to pack," Spencer said. "Leave anything inessential, we can always send people back up to get the rest. Take anything important, and I'll Telegraph the War Office in the morning to send up an armed guard to get the rest."

Brendon looked startled for a moment. "Oh," he said, then, "oh." He tugged off his goggles, and turned back to his dirigible prototype. "Time to take you apart, dearest," he said, softly, and across the room, Spencer swallowed, his chest tight.

  


Spencer didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke up to the sound of breaking glass, terrifyingly loud and desperately sharp in the middle of the night. He was wide awake in a second, sitting up and automatically reaching for the cane he always kept by his bed, but he wasn't in his bedroom.

"What was that?" Brendon asked, and Spencer jumped, not realising he wasn't alone in the room. Spencer had been asleep on the sofa in Brendon's study, and there was the remains of a fire in the grate, coals glowing orange and crackling, and the last mark of a candle-lamp guttering on the mantel. He remembered them stopping for something warm to drink after it had finally got too cold and too late to continue packing up Brendon's work. His cane was on the table by his seat, and he reached for it, stumbling awkwardly to his feet. Brendon had been clearly been asleep with his head on the desk, but he was up and grabbing the candle-lamp and opening the door even as Spencer hurried after him.

"Loud, that's what," Spencer said, grimly, running his hand through his hair and trying to calm the rapid pulse of his heartbeat as they headed down the hallway towards the noise. It was something breaking, something _large_ , and it had sounded like it had come from the library. Candle-light flickered under the closed door, and Spencer called out a warning to Brendon to be careful, but Brendon was already turning the key in the lock, and pushing open the door without caution.

"Oh my," Brendon said, as Spencer followed him inside.

"Oh," Spencer echoed, because the room had been searched. Books had been removed from shelves, drawers lay open across the floor, and the giant vase that had stood so dusty and magnificent in the centre of the room lay in a thousand pieces on the floor. A gust of wind blew the heavy curtains inwards, scattering papers and pages across the carpet. The window in the corner stood wide open, rain coming in and wetting the edge of the rug.

"We have been burgled," Brendon said, stupidly.

"Yes," Spencer said, already checking the windowpanes for signs of forced entry. All of the windows were locked and untouched, apart for the single open one, in the corner. There was no sign of any force, on either the frame or the window itself.

"Is he still here, do you think?" Brendon asked, brandishing the poker in one hand, and the candle-lamp in the other. The flame flickered alarmingly, but Spencer shook his head, and Brendon stilled.

"Whoever he was, he'll be long gone by now. Startled by the vase breaking, I imagine," Spencer told him, trying to sound more in control than he actually was. He closed the window and took care to lock it. "This is how he got out, at least, and probably in, as well. The door was locked, I collect? The key was in the lock outside?"

"It was locked," Brendon confirmed, looking around.

"And have you or Mrs. Field had cause to open this window since I arrived yesterday?"

"I haven't, and I can't imagine why Mrs. Field would have." Brendon said, but he didn't appear to be listening all that closely. He was kneeling down, picking up first one book, then another, running a hand absent-mindedly though the pile of papers scattered across the floor.

Spencer bit his lip, worriedly. "Who could have been in this room since yesterday? For it was certainly locked when I arrived, I checked."

"Nobody," Brendon said, absently gathering up papers in a haphazard pile. "Do you think it was something to do with Grandfather?"

"I imagine so," Spencer said, going back out into the hallway. Mrs. Field was coming downstairs, clutching her candle-lamp and wrapped up in her gown. "Mrs. Field," he said, as she hurried over to him, "there has been a burglary. Have you had any cause to unlatch the window in the library since my arrival?"

"Why, Mr. Smith," she said. "You could have been hurt." She touched at his elbow, but then she pushed past him and into the library, seeing Brendon kneeling on the floor. "Brendon!"

"There is no need to worry for me, Mrs. Field," he said, still looking through the papers. "But this is a sorry mess we find ourselves in."

"Mrs. Field," Spencer said, again, "I'm sorry, but I need to be sure. Did you unlatch the window in here at any point since my arrival?"

"Why, no," she said, standing up and wrapping her gown tighter around her. Her hair was curled in papers, hanging down around her face, and without her starched apron and faded dress, she looked older, and less severe. "I have not been in here at all, the older Mr. Urie does not like it. He says the fresh air does a poor service to his long-suffering books."

Spencer nodded. "The window was definitely locked when I arrived yesterday. Who else may have been here?"

"Nobody," Mrs. Field said in surprise. "The search party for Mr. Urie set off from my Sam's house, and nobody but my boy and those men of yours, Mr. Smith, have been up to the house since."

Ausfield's warning rang in Spencer's ears, but he couldn't believe that either Frederick or Thomas would be Ausfield's traitor. They didn't have the seniority that would have given them access to any of the documents Ausfield thought had been passed into enemy hands, and before today Spencer would have considered them completely trustworthy. Don't trust anyone, Ausfield had said, but it was still difficult to think of either of them betraying their country.

"The vicar was here," Brendon said, after a moment.

Spencer could have kicked himself for being so stupid. "Of course," he said. "He was alone in here, am I right?"

"Yes," Mrs. Field said, her brow furrowing. "I brought him here, and then went to announce him to Mr. Urie. But he's a man of the cloth," she said. "I might not have liked him very much, not since he was a boy, but I can't believe this of him."

Spencer's ears pricked up. "You've known him since he was a child?" he asked.

Mrs Field shrugged. "A little," she said. "He and his brother were quite the troublemakers, whenever they were home from school for the holidays. But this was quite a way from their home, we were lucky not to see much of them. Not like Abercliffe, they had to deal with them all the time, stealing, they said. Not that the magistrate ever did anything about it."

"His brother?" Spencer glanced about the room again, looking for some kind of clue. "What was their name?"

"Why," Mrs. Field said. "Reinold."

Spencer leaned back heavily against the desk. He ran his hand through his hair. "Christopher," he said, softly, thinking of his friend. "Kit. Kit Reinold."

"You know him?" Brendon asked, standing up. He dusted his hands against his thighs.

Spencer couldn't remember how to breathe. He had been friends with Kit Reinold since they had been at university together; since they were eighteen and had rooms on the same hallway. There was nobody in the world he was closer to, apart from Ryan, and he hadn't seen him since that final term at university. The three of them had been approached by the War Office, and Ryan had disappeared deep undercover in France, the fluent French of his nursery and schoolroom suddenly of more use than Ryan could ever have imagined. Spencer had worked in and out of the field, crossing the channel more times than he could remember. Kit had – Kit had stayed in London, never selected for cross-channel missions. Spencer couldn't believe that he had committed _treason_ , though, and he couldn't believe that it might have been Kit who had stolen the flying-craft information to take it to Napoleon. He couldn't believe that Kit might be responsible for the disappearance of Brendon's grandfather. "Yes," he said, finally. His mouth was dry and there was a bitter taste on his tongue. He rubbed at his forehead. "We were at university together."

"What does that _mean_ ," Brendon said. "You think the _vicar_ broke in here? Reverend Reinold?"

"Maybe," Spencer said, taking another look at the windowpane. "Or maybe he just unlocked the window earlier for his brother to get in later. Or maybe it was him, and he was looking for something Kit had told him to find." He thought of Brendon's workshop, deep underneath the house.

"I don't follow," Mrs. Field said.

"Neither do I," Brendon said. "You think the Reinolds have something to do with my grandfather's disappearance?"

"Maybe," Spencer said. He didn't want to talk about this, he wanted to be back in London in his rooms with nothing and nobody to worry about. "Does anyone know about your workshop, Brendon? Is there another entrance?"

"In the stables," Brendon said, looking confused. "But it's all fallen in after that storm we had at New Year. We thought we'd wait until the summer to try and move all the rubble and unblock the door."

Spencer nodded. "We should check, anyway," he said. "And make sure we guard the library entrance ourselves, for now."

"I'll make some tea," Mrs. Field said, after a moment. "with plenty of sugar. We've all had a shock."

Spencer nodded. "Good idea," he said. His hands were shaking.

"My grandfather," Brendon said, as Mrs. Field disappeared out into the hallway towards the kitchen. "I don't understand."

"Kit Reinold works for the War Office," Spencer said, softly. "Like I do. He was one of my best friends at university. Somebody wants your plans for the flying-craft, and they want to take them to Napoleon. The only way they could know of the plans' existence was to steal the information, and turn traitor. And now Reinold's brother is here, unlatching the window to your house to let in a burglar, and _no one_ aside from me, my superior and the spy we've got on the inside at the Royal Society is supposed to know of your part in all of this." Even the Wentzes had no idea why it was they were watching your house. Spencer's legs felt like jelly. He vaguely remembered Kit speaking of growing up in the wilds of Yorkshire, _the back of beyond_ , he'd said. They'd shared a bottle of malt that evening, and they'd woken up sprawled across the couches in their rooms, with headaches and dry mouths. Reinold had never spoken of his home again.

"You think he's a traitor?" Brendon asked. His mouth, Spencer realised haphazardly. His mouth. For a single, stupid second he wanted to reach out and touch it with the tips of his fingers.

"I don't know," Spencer said. He clenched his hand into a fist, his stomach rolling. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "It seems that way."

"Well," Brendon said. "What are we to do?"

Spencer shook his head. "I don't know -"

"My _grandfather_ ," Brendon said. "Tell me what we are to do."

Spencer sighed. "Alright," he said. "Have you a map? Can you show me where the Reinolds' house is? They may have gone there, if Kit -" he stumbled over the words. "If Reinold thinks he has escaped detection. It would be safe."

Brendon kicked a pile of books out of the way, and when they didn't move, he pushed them to one side. The kitten, crouched into a corner, scrambled into Brendon's arms, and Brendon hugged her close, pressing an absent-minded kiss to the top of her head. Spencer held on to his cane a little tighter, watching as Brendon knelt in front of a cupboard, rooting through a stack of papers until he found a rolled-up map. He kept a tight hold on the kitten as he swept the contents of the desk onto the floor, not in the least mindful of what might break.

"Here," he said, unrolling the map and pinning three of its corners down with books, and one with the ugly orange kitten, who mewed, but stayed put. He pointed out the Urie house, before leaning down and picking up a broken pencil, distinctively square and well-used. "We're here," he said, circling Urie Hall on the map. Spencer leaned over the table, taking in the proximity to the village, and the field markings. "There's the road from Bisdale," Brendon went on, tracing the line across the map, west to east. "The Grange is here, look." He pointed at a point somewhat north east of the Bisdale road and Brendon's house. The Grange was a square marked in bold black.

"That's the Reinold house?" Spencer asked. There was a village, Abercliffe, in between Brendon's house and the Grange, and a wood. The tiny trees were drawn close together, densely packed as they skirted a lake. The scale was marked on the bottom of the map, about a mile to the inch. When Brendon nodded, Spencer held his hand out as a rough measure. The village was about four miles away, and Beckford Grange, Kit's family home, was about another two miles further on. "So close," he said, softly.

He reached for his pocket watch. It was a little after four.

Brendon stared out of the window into the dark. "It'll be light in a couple of hours," he said, as if reading Spencer's mind.

"We'll leave then," Spencer said, although how exactly they were going to win this one, he had no idea.

Brendon nodded, shortly, and started to kneel down, to start to clean up the detritus left by the burglar. He clutched the kitten tightly, and she mewed, still scared.

Spencer shook his head. "Is any of this relevant to your research?" he asked, stopping Brendon with a touch to his shoulder, and indicating the mess.

"No," Brendon said. "This is my grandfather's room. It's mostly botany, and guides to field mushrooms." He dropped _The Identification of England's Mushrooms_ back down on top of the pile, and ran his hand through his hair.

"Leave it, then," Spencer said. "We need to busy ourselves with your work, now, not your grandfather's. We can pack some more of your papers before it gets light." He didn't suggest going back to sleep, although he felt tired right down to his bones.

Brendon nodded jerkily. "Yes," he said, "alright," and led the way down the hall and back into his study, to the locked door hidden inside the cupboard, and to the hidden workshop underneath the grounds.

  


A messenger arrived from London whilst it was still dark outside. It was the message promised by Ausfield's first Telegraph, and for a second, Spencer wished that communication could be faster, that he could have assistance, that Ausfield could be here to advise.

He bade Brendon wait a few minutes, whilst he decoded the message, and then, once he had finished reading, he sighed. Ausfield's note explained how papers had been found, rifled through and partially decoded, and how the thief had been traced back to the War Office, and how information privy only to a certain few within the offices deep beneath Whitehall had been found in Napoleon's hands. Spencer didn't concentrate on the specifics, scanning through to see if there was anything suggesting that the thief might be Reinold. There wasn't. There was merely an instruction to take Urie and his work to a safe-house, a new one, known only to Ausfield himself, the location of which was encoded even more cryptically than the rest of the note.

At least Spencer knew where he was to take Brendon, if his grandfather wasn't to be found.

The thought made him feel cold inside, and he instructed Ausfield's messenger to stand guard in Brendon's study until their return, guarding the entrance to the workshop, and not let anyone in. "Nobody, understand?" Spencer said. And then, in a lower voice, passing him a folded note, he said, "And if we do not return, send this to Ausfield by Telegraph, and guard this room with your life."

  


They left just after first light, on horseback, with Thomas and Frederick riding alongside. Spencer's pistols were primed and ready. He fingered the flintlock absently, riding along the narrow lane with Brendon in front and Thomas and Frederick either side of them, muskets primed. Neither he nor Brendon were especially competent in the saddle. Spencer blamed his injury, but Brendon confided that he had never been very good at riding, not even as a child. They moved as fast as they could, but it wasn't ever going to be fast enough for Spencer's active imagination. He'd been in situations like this before, but never when his adversary was someone he'd known so well as he'd imagined he'd known Kit.

Mrs. Field had packed them sandwiches, although Spencer was sure that whatever there was time for today, sitting down to lunch was probably not going to be one of those things. He had written a hastily encoded message for Ausfield whilst Brendon had packed some of his papers and his materials up into packing cases and chests, and had left it with Mrs. Field. She had promised that her son, Sam, would take it over to the Telegraph Station as soon as it was light enough for the Telegraphs to start up for the day.

They covered good ground, and by the time the sun had risen over the trees, they were through the wood and out by the lake, riding single-file along the bridle path.

Brendon barely spoke, and when he did, Spencer kept worrying that he would say what they were all thinking, that they had come too late, and that Brendon's grandfather would be already dead.

Spencer gripped the reins tighter, and tried to concentrate on anything other than the burning pain in his leg.

  


Beckford Grange was an old, rambling red brick building, dating back to Henry VII and showing it. Ivy crept across the brickwork, long ago having insinuated itself into the fabric of the building, twisting around windows and up and onto the gables so that the house seemed to be made entirely of greenery. The road from Abercliffe village – although a little tired and well-ridden – showed none of the want of upkeep that Brendon's did.

Once they had hidden the horses in a folly beyond the walls, they had been able to creep far into the grounds without fear of being seen, for the grounds were full of trees, elm and birch and cedar and oak.

Spencer wished he could move as fast as the others, but he couldn't. He kept falling behind, and the damp, muddy ground made it even more difficult for him to walk than his injury usually allowed. He had forgotten how painful horse-riding was, and now he was walking, pain spasmed up his leg with every step. His cane was little use, sinking into the mud.

After a few minutes, Brendon stepped back, and offered Spencer his elbow, his cheeks pinking.

"No, I – You want to get to your grandfather." Spencer hated taking – or needing – assistance. Especially when this used to be his trade, when he had done things like this day after day, and never once had he failed because his _leg_ had let him down.

"Can't do it without you," Brendon said, softly, and Spencer took a deep breath and let Brendon take some of the burden for a while.

The house looked shut up – even more so than Brendon's did.

"Their father died," Brendon told him, as they edged ever closer to the house, taking the long way so that they were still hidden from sight of the house. "When Reinold inherited, much of the money was gone, or so Mrs. Field said. That's how the vicar got his parish, though. Christopher Reinold moved the incumbent on, so that his brother Andrew could take over. Evicted him from the vicarage, with barely any notice, Mrs. Field said."

"Hush," Spencer said, his attention caught by something moving behind one of the windows on the ground floor. He held his hand up. "Nobody move."

They waited, desperately still, but everything was quiet.

"There's someone in there," Spencer said, after a moment..

"It's supposed to be all shut up," Brendon said. "Reinold is always in town, and Andrew has the vicarage in the village. There isn't supposed to be anyone here. Do you think it's my grandfather?"

"Maybe," Spencer said. "Although I can't imagine he'd be able to walk around if it was. I think it's Kit – Reinold," he corrected himself, and steadfastly ignoring the way the betrayal twisted in his gut. "Reinold's the one moving, and that means we need to be careful, because he's going to be armed."

"He won't know we're coming," Brendon reminded him.

"If your grandfather's in there," Spencer said, "then Reinold's committed treason and he'll hang as soon as he's caught. He's going to be armed, Brendon."

Spencer watched a muscle throb in Brendon's cheek. "Do you think he's alright? My grandfather?"

Spencer didn't know what to say. "I hope so," he settled for, finally. "Freddie, Tom. Go scout out our way in. Brendon and I will keep watch here."

Freddie nodded, and set off into the trees, Thomas following right behind, silent and quick. Spencer settled down to watch, and wait, Brendon by his side.

  


"They've been gone a long time," Brendon said, after a while.

"Patience," Spencer said, although he had one eye on his fob watch, clutched tightly in his hand. Brendon was restless beside him, pacing the muddy ground between the thicket where they had concealed themselves, and the tall, closely packed trees that formed the Reinold wood.

Spencer was concentrating on the house, on the occasional movement he saw behind the drapes. It was methodical, he realised, the motions of someone walking back and forth. He remembered Kit's furious pacing from when they were working late into the night at university, and how Kit said it helped him think. He wondered if he was alone, and if he wasn't, where his brother was.

Brendon dropped down next to him, peering through the gap where Spencer was looking. "Do you think William is alright?" he asked, after a moment. "I'm not sure I've ever left him behind before."

Spencer swallowed. "Mrs. Field will take good care of him, I'm sure," he said, because of all the things he was worried about, Brendon's pet hedgehog was somewhere down at the bottom of the list. "Here, Freddie and Tom are coming back."

"Did you see my grandfather?" Brendon asked, clambering to his feet. He brushed the mud off his knees, and offered his arm to Spencer to help him up.

"No," Freddie said. "But we did find a broken latch."

"Good," Spencer said. "How big?"

"Window's in the scullery," Tom said. "Above a sink. There's a door leading outside from the kitchen, we can send someone in the window and have them open the door."

"I'll do it," Brendon said immediately.

Time was, it would have been Spencer clambering through the window, and he wouldn't have had back-up, either. But Spencer had never been particularly good at this particular part of espionage, and now he was glad of Tom and Freddie, and equal parts glad and worried that Brendon was by his side.

"Brendon," Spencer started. "You're not trained -"

"Apparently I can win this war," Brendon said, urgently. "I'm sure I can climb through a window and open a door."

Spencer wanted to say _no_. His primary instinct wasn't to rescue Brendon's grandfather, it was to make sure Brendon was safe. "You haven't got a gun," he said, trying to sound reasonable. "What if you're heard?"

"I have," Brendon said, and he pulled out an ancient pistol from his pocket. It was primed. And _in his pocket_.

"That could have gone off," Spencer said, angrily. He was rather against the idea of anyone being shot in the leg, but somehow the idea of Brendon being hurt made it difficult to breathe.

"I rather think that's the point, don't you?" Brendon said. "I'm smaller than any of you, I should be the one to climb in. Come on, we're wasting time arguing about this."

Freddie's face showed agreement. Both he and Tom were over six feet tall, and whilst Spencer wasn't that much taller than Brendon, he was a little bigger around the middle, and certainly less able to move freely, what with his injured leg.

"Alright," Spencer said, rolling his eyes to cover the frantic pounding of his heart. "Brendon will open the door, and then he'll stay back. Tom and Freddie, you two will be in front, and then me, and then Brendon." Brendon started to protest, but Spencer shook his head. "You've never done anything like this before, Brendon. You _haven't_. And you're too important to get hurt." He kept talking over Brendon's protests, turning to Tom and Freddie and asking them to show him where the scullery was in relation to the front of the house.

They drew a map in the mud with a stick, the front of the house, a mark for the windows, a big X for where someone – Reinold – was pacing back and forth. The kitchen was around the side of the house, six windows from the front. It was a lot of ground to cover without being heard, but not enough that it would give Reinold too much time to prepare much of a defence. It was far from perfect, but Spencer had gone in to much worse situations, with less back-up.

The plan after they were inside was a lot less thought-out, but Spencer had been used to that in the past, and so long as Brendon didn't jump in front of anyone's gun, Spencer was more hopeful than perhaps he had cause to be.

"Alright," he said, finally, "let's go."

  


The scullery window was small, but Brendon proved himself to be smaller and more flexible than Spencer had given him credit for, and it was only a minute or so until he was unbolting the kitchen door and letting them in.

"This hasn't been lived in for a while," Spencer said, in a low voice, taking in the surfaces covered in dust, and the empty shelves.

"But someone's been living here recently, look." Tom pointed out the meat pie out on the counter, uncovered and half-eaten, a plate and a blunt knife lying next to it.

Brendon poked at it with his finger. "Sam Field brings these sometimes," he said, quietly, as they crossed the room, pausing by the door to check Reinold wasn't waiting out in the hallway. "They're from the pie-maker in the village. Next to the vicarage."

Spencer nodded. "There might be two of them here, then," he said. "Look out for Kit and his brother, and don't let your guard down. We need to take them in alive, if we can. It's easier if they can confess."

Brendon nodded, and Spencer – despite the bitter taste in his mouth, and the way his heart beat faster in anticipation at what they were about to do – felt that same, familiar tug in his chest he'd come to expect whenever he looked at Brendon.

"Stay safe," Spencer said, softly, and Brendon looked at him, wide-eyed.

"You too," Brendon echoed, and then they were edging their way down the hallway, towards the front of the house, and Spencer couldn't divert any of his attention to the way looking at Brendon made him feel inside.

Spencer tried to be as quiet as possible, and luckily there was a rug that ran the length of the hallway, a runner that masked the sound of Spencer's cane. The hall seemed endless, but it wasn't. They turned the corner and then they were in the doorway of what was probably a morning room under any other circumstance. He took in the room in a split second, noticing first of all the old man in a chair by the fireplace; his ankles tied to the chair legs. He saw that the furniture seemed nice, if a little out of place amongst the hastily pulled back dust-sheets, and then, standing by the window, he saw Kit Reinold.

"Hands in the air, Kit," Spencer said, his pistol in his hand, levelled at Kit. He wasn't sure he could shoot with one hand, but next to him, Tom and Freddie both had their guns pointed at Reinold's head. He still wanted this to be civilised; he wanted to take Kit in and have his guilt proved by a magistrate. Spencer still didn't want this to be true.

Kit didn't move. He was dressed just the same as the last time Spencer had seen him, wrapped in his greatcoat, the only difference being the missing top hat, and the loosened cravat. A muscle throbbed in his pale face.

"Kit," Spencer said, again. "Hands in the air."

"Spencer," Kit said, and if Spencer hadn't known him for so long, he would almost have said that Kit sounded bored, his voice a drawl. But Spencer _had_ known him a long time, and he knew that it was nothing more than an affectation, a mechanism he'd used back at university when he was called upon to talk in lectures. "How lovely to see you. Won't you sit down?"

"Kit," Spencer said, for the third time.

"Really, Smith," Kit said, "if you were going to shoot me, you really would have done already by now."

"You're a traitor, Reinold," Spencer said, because there wasn't a single other explanation that would make Kit an innocent in all of this, much as Spencer wished it wasn't true. "Taking information to Napoleon. How could you?"

Kit shrugged. His hands were down by his side, and Spencer knew how quickly he could move for his pistol if he chose to. Spencer glanced sideways at Brendon's grandfather. He was an old man – older than Spencer had anticipated, actually, white-haired and wrinkled. His eyes were bright, though, and he was watching them all, his gaze darting back from one side of the room to the other. He was gagged. There was no one between Kit and Henry Urie; Brendon's grandfather could be dead before they could disarm Kit. "He paid well," Kit said finally.

Spencer shook his head. "You sold secrets for _better pay_?" He felt shocked and as though the world had slowed down around him. He didn't understand. "How could you do that?"

Kit shrugged. "It isn't that I like Napoleon and France any better than I like it here," he said. He was speaking slowly, almost like he was killing time. "I just like money. And I was _bored_ ," he went on. "Do you think it's fun, spending five years listening at doors and copying letters in London?"

Spencer blinked. "You were _bored_ ," he repeated. "You'll hang for this."

"I really don't think so," Kit said, a smile curving across his face. He lifted his hand, indicating behind them. "Gentlemen, have you met my brother?"

Spencer whirled around. Andrew Reinold, who Spencer had previously only seen in his vicar's garb, sermonising to Brendon in the library, was standing behind them in the doorway with the tip of his pistol pressed to Brendon's temple.

Brendon looked terrified, and in the split second it took Spencer to decide what it was he had to do, Tom had his pistol pressed to Andrew's side.

"Shoot him and you'll be dead in a second," Tom threatened, nodding to Spencer to let him know he had the situation under control. Spencer spun back around, his pistol raised. Kit was half-way across the room towards them, his gun in his hand.

Spencer shot at him.

His aim was off, and the ricochet reverberated down his side. His leg hurt and the sound of Spencer's pistol-shot was echoed by another, and then another. Behind him someone shouted, but Spencer didn't recognise who it was. Smoke clouded his view, and his arm felt hot. It had been too long since he'd had to use a gun, and even longer since he'd to use one in combat.

"They're both down," Freddie said, which meant that he had Andrew down on the floor. Spencer had seen Kit fall, and he was across the room and pushing Kit onto his back before he even knew what he was doing. Kit had been his _friend_.

Kit's lifeless eyes stared up at him, glassy and bright. There were two bullet wounds in his chest. Spencer's, and someone else's. He mouth tasted bitter.

There had been three pistol-shots. He looked back to see who else had been hurt. _Please not Brendon_ , he thought. "Who's hurt?" he asked. His arm still throbbed, and his voice sounded strangely far away, like he was in another room and his body was still here.

He could see Andrew face down on the floor by the door, his hands behind his back, someone kneeling down on top of him, their back to Spencer. Andrew was making noises, shouting maybe, which meant that at least one of them was still alive. Spencer's vision blurred; he couldn't see Brendon. He didn't know whether it was Tom or Freddie with Andrew. "Who's hurt?" he said again. His head whirled. Was Brendon's grandfather alright? He couldn't see.

"Oh my God," Brendon was suddenly in front of him, his hand hooked under Spencer's elbow, and Spencer felt hot all over. "You're hurt," he said, which was news to Spencer. Brendon turned to catch the attention of Tom or Freddie. "Spencer's been shot."

"Have not," Spencer said, but his mouth felt thick, and his words slurred. His legs felt shaky, and he felt himself falling forward.

There was blood all down his arm. He collapsed.

  


When Spencer opened his eyes, it was dark outside, and the only light came from a single candle-lamp next to him, a draught causing the flame to flicker alarmingly.

"What -" he managed, trying to sit up. He was in bed, although the window was in the wrong place for it to be his bedroom at Brendon's house. The shaving kit on the dresser seemed familiar, at least, and he realised he must be in Brendon's bedroom. His arm hurt, and when he looked down, it was wrapped in strips of bandage, and then bound to his chest. He remembered Kit's glassy, lifeless stare, and after that, nothing. He felt sick. "Going to be sick," he managed, and then someone was holding a bowl under his chin and he was retching.

When he was finished, it was Mrs. Field who leaned over him and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "There, there, dear," she said. "You've been very brave."

Spencer didn't feel brave. He was fairly sure he'd just vomited into a chamber pot. He was sweating and his arm felt like it was burning. His head hurt. "What happened?" he asked. "Where am I?"

"The way I heard it," Mrs. Field said, leaning over and fluffing his pillows, "you were shot by that Mr. Reinold. The surgeon had to come all the way from Bradford to take the bullet out. Now, try not to talk. Lie back and rest."

Spencer really didn't remember getting shot. His arm hurt a lot, but not as much as his leg had when he'd been shot in the thigh. He didn't think he'd ever forget _that_. "I don't remember," he said, still a little disorientated, but he couldn't stay here when he didn't know where Brendon was, or if he was alright. He tried to sit up. "Is Brendon alright? What day is it?"

"Doctor Hardcastle removed the bullet last night," she told him, pouring a little tea into a cup for him. It was strong and over-brewed, and after she had passed him the cup, she busied herself tucking the blankets in again and shaking her head at his attempts to get out of bed. "And Brendon is fine. The doctor said he couldn't have shot you better himself. Bullet went in and stayed in; it didn't hit anything too important, and he got it out and sewed you up nice and proper. He gave you laudanum, Mr. Smith, and he said to give you more if you ignored his orders for you to stay right here."

Spencer gave up trying to get out of bed. He felt a little dizzy, anyway, although he wasn't going to admit that any time soon. He was still worried. "Brendon's grandfather?" he asked. "Is he alright? And Kit – he looked -" he felt a little sick again, remembering Kit's lifeless face, and all their years of friendship. "Christopher Reinold. I shot him, but I don't know about his brother -"

"Hush," Mrs. Field said, leaning over to take Spencer's teacup away from him. His hand was shaking, and he hadn't noticed. "Don't you try and talk. I know everyone has been very worried about you. Mr. Ausfield arrived here this morning and everything's been in an uproar, waiting for you to wake up. Brendon's been pacing that hallway since lunch-time. Mr. Urie's been quite beside himself. All you need to know is that Christopher Reinold is dead, his brother is locked up, and everyone else is fine apart from you."

"Ausfield's here?" Spencer managed, weakly. His relief at hearing that everyone was fine was so strong he barely knew what to do with himself. He told himself it was only natural to want to take care of his charge, especially when Brendon's inventions could turn the balance of power in this war firmly back in their favour. He ignored the fact he knew he'd never felt like this before about anyone, and tried to remind himself that he'd never been directed to protect anyone before. Maybe this was how he was supposed to be feeling. But he couldn't believe that, not really, and instead of dwelling on it, he concentrated on the throbbing pain in his upper arm instead. That and the surprising news that Ausfield was _here_ , in Brendon's house.

"Oh yes," Mrs. Field went on. "Turning everything upside down. Everyone's been shouting. I don't think he likes it here very much. He wanted to set off for London after lunch, but Brendon refused to go with him and now there's hell to pay."

"He refused Ausfield?" Spencer couldn't imagine that. Ausfield was a commanding fellow, and renowned for his ability to resemble a huge, sweating hog when angered, tusks included. Spencer hadn't ever needed to stand up to him, something he had always been more than happy about.

"That he did," Mrs. Field said, and just for a moment, her eyes twinkled. "Should have seen Mr. Ausfield's face when Brendon refused to go. He nearly had an apoplexy. Turned red, he did, like a beetroot."

"Purple," Spencer said, a little dazed. "Beetroot is purple." His mother loved the horrible stuff, and when he and his sisters had been growing up, they'd forever been served beetroot salad, and beetroot soup. He wondered if he would hate it so much if he hadn't been force-fed it so often as a child.

"That's right," Mrs. Field said. "Like a beetroot. Your Mr. Ausfield turned a fancy shade of purple. You close your eyes for a minute now, and I'll find Brendon. He has been worried about you."

Spencer nodded. "Been worried about him, too."

Mrs. Field smiled. "Don't you try and get up as soon as my back's turned," she said. "I know where the doctor left the laudanum, and I'm not afraid to use it if you ignore his instructions."

Spencer wanted to argue with her, but if truth be told, his head ached and his arm hurt and he felt suddenly bone-weary, right down to his toes. He was asleep before she'd even closed the bedroom door.

  


When he woke again, Brendon was sitting by his bed, feeding sunflower seeds to the inquisitive hedgehog on his lap. The orange kitten was asleep at the foot of the bed, a warm heap of fur by his left foot.

"I never asked," Spencer said, softly. He sounded a little croaky, but he felt a lot better than he had the last time he'd woken up. "What is the kitten called?"

Brendon's head jerked up. "Jasmine," he said, after a moment. "Her name is Jasmine."

Spencer's recognised the word, but not what it meant. He knew he'd heard it somewhere before.

"It's a flower," Brendon explained, nervously picking at the threads of the blanket with shaking hands. His eyes were bright. "From the East. There's a picture of it in one of Grandfather's books."

Spencer wanted to reach out and still Brendon's hand. He didn't, and instead, he reached out a finger for the hedgehog to sniff. William clambered happily onto Spencer's palm after sniffing at his finger, and nosed at the sleeve of his pyjamas once he was settled in Spencer's hand. It still felt strange, like someone was tickling him. "I am very glad that you are well," Spencer said, quietly. His cheeks felt warm and he concentrated on the hedgehog, who was nibbling at a sunflower seed in Spencer's hand. "I was worried about you."

Brendon's cheeks pinked. "You were the one who was shot," he said, ducking his head and leaning over to stroke his hedgehog's nose. "I didn't do anything. You discovered who the spy was and where they were holding my grandfather."

"What happened?" Spencer asked, quickly, so that neither of them could dwell on that too much. The memory of Brendon's grandfather tied to the chair was not a pleasant one. "Kit is dead, I know, and Mrs. Field said that Andrew Reinold is in custody. How is your grandfather, and what happened to me? How did I get back here?"

Brendon nodded quickly, smiling. "Grandfather wishes very much to meet you. But he is well. He is demanding sandwiches. He tells Mrs. Field that he has a week of lunches to make up on. She complains he is eating her out of house and home. The doctor says he must rest, and take no more interest in stoats and otters for a month. Grandfather grumbles."

Spencer laughed. It hurt his arm, and he hissed in a breath. "I wish to meet him too," he said, as soon as he was able.

Brendon fiddled with the sheet. "Does it hurt very much?" he asked, after a moment.

"A little," Spencer admitted. His leg still hurt just as much as it always had; he wondered if it would ever let up. "You were going to tell me what happened."

"I was?" Brendon blushed. "I'm sorry. Uh. Christopher was dead, and Thomas and Freddie had got Andrew's gun from him, and you were, you were -" He swallowed a couple of times.

"It's alright," Spencer said, softly. "I'm better now."

Brendon nodded. "I know," he said. "I'm very glad of that. They had to tie Andrew up before they could help me, and I thought – I thought. You were still bleeding," he said, quietly. "I thought you were still alive if you were still bleeding, but it was frightening. They untied my grandfather so they could tie Andrew up, and then my grandfather helped me with you. Then we stole the Reinold carriage and brought you here, and then Sam Field rode for the surgeon at Bradford." He stammered a little, but when he looked up his eyes were bright and clear. "I thought you would die," he said, "and I knew it was all my fault."

"It wasn't," Spencer tried to assure him, swallowing hard. "The only people at fault were the Reinolds."

"But if I hadn't signed my grandfather's name when I wrote to the Royal Society, or if I'd worried about him being missing earlier, if I'd _realised_ -"

Spencer stopped him. "None of that would have made any difference if Kit Reinold hadn't stolen your letters to take to Napoleon. It wouldn't, Brendon. He was a traitor. A _traitor_." He swallowed, his mouth dry. "Did he hurt your grandfather much?"

Brendon shook his head. "My grandfather was wonderful," he said, proudly. "He persuaded Reinold that he had given up his plans to invent after the Royal Society didn't reply to his letters. He told them he had destroyed all of his research, and that if Reinold was going to take the flying-craft to Napoleon, he would have to wait whilst Grandfather re-did all of his calculations. But Grandfather was taking too long, that's why Andrew broke in here, to see if it was true that none of his research was here."

"They didn't know about the workshop?"

"Nobody knows about that," Brendon said. "Or knew, at least. Now there are men down there, packing up everything."

"I heard Ausfield was here," Spencer said. He was surprised by how little his arm hurt, actually, and although it might be because he was so much better at coping with pain since his previous leg injury, he was already feeling better.

Brendon nodded. "He arrived this morning. He's been waiting all day. He doesn't really enjoy waiting, does he?"

Spencer laughed. "No," he said, trying to sit up. "He really doesn't. I hope he hasn't been too much like a bear with a sore head."

"Only a little bit," Brendon said. He leaned over and offered Spencer his assistance in sitting up, and piling the pillows behind Spencer's back. "But he seems to like Mrs. Field's cherry cake. He ate three slices, one after the other."

Spencer swallowed. Brendon smelled like the heat of the coal fires needed to keep the steam-engines running. It was a smell Spencer was growing used to. "I should talk to him," he said. "Mrs. Field said he was eager to set off for London again."

"He is not a fan of the country, that much is true," Brendon said. His mouth set in a fierce line. "But we are not leaving for London yet. You do not need to worry."

"Your research is very important," Spencer said. "Your inventions could change everything." He remembered the dirigible prototype in Brendon's workshop, and imagined a sky full of flying-craft, the world a different place. Magical, even. "They'll change the future."

"Well," Brendon said, but his cheeks were flushed and his hair fell across his forehead. "I am sure the world can wait another day or two for me to unpack my work."

"Do you know where you will be living, yet?" Spencer asked, hesitantly. He wanted it to be somewhere he could visit, somewhere where he could see Brendon again. His hours in the maze of underground offices beneath Whitehall were long, though, and he wondered if he kept himself busy because he was so lonely, or if he was lonely because of how much work he put in. "Just – I would not like you to go without saying good-bye." It was all he could say, but it did not in any way serve to represent the way he truly felt .

"I wouldn't." Brendon shook his head, but his eyes were bright, and Spencer let himself hope, just for a moment, that Brendon was suffering from the same constraints of propriety that Spencer himself was.

"I do not want to leave," Brendon confided. "This is the only place I've ever remembered living. I've never been to London. What if I hate it there?"

Spencer plastered on what he hoped was a smile. "Think of all the coffee-houses you could visit," he said.

Brendon ducked his head. "Maybe you could show me some of your favourite ones," he said, and Spencer was _sure_ he saw something in Brendon's face that wasn't there before. A curious open-ness, perhaps, or _hope_. As soon as it was there, though, it was gone again, for there came a knock at the door, and without waiting for anyone to give an answer, it swung open.

It was Ausfield. Brendon jumped to his feet, almost tumbling his hedgehog onto the floor in the process. Ausfield ignored Brendon, who was scooping up his hedgehog and removing awkwardly to the foot of the bed, in favour of shaking his head at Spencer.

"You do keep getting shot, Smith," he said, almost regretfully.

Spencer wanted to laugh. "It's good to see you, Sir," he said, instead.

Brendon looked awkward and unsure, his hedgehog curled up against his chest.

"Glad to see that Reinold didn't take you with him," Ausfield told him, sitting down in Brendon's chair and stretching his legs out. The chair creaked alarmingly.

"He's dead," Spencer said, knowing it to be true.

"As a doornail," Ausfield told him. "And we've got his toad of a brother locked up in the cellar, too. He'll hang for sure. Imagine he wishes he were dead, too." Ausfield sounded positively cheerful about the possibility. "Hope hell's particularly nasty to the traitorous little bastard. Never did like him." He thumped his fist against the bedspread. "Now, if only you would stop getting shot. Do you think you could at least _try_ and stop getting in the way of people with pistols?"

"I don't plan on it happening again," Spencer said. He really, really didn't. But he hadn't exactly planned on it this time around, though, so he couldn't say never.

"Excellent. Now, I understand you have some influence on our inventor, here." He nodded towards Brendon, and Spencer had to be glad that putting the Reinolds out of the business of selling secrets to the French had had such a positive effect on Ausfield's mood, because now he was looking positively benevolent. "Is there any chance you could exercise a little of that persuasive manner and get him to leave the arse-end of bloody nowhere?"

Spencer wanted to roll his eyes, but Brendon got there before him. "I wasn't going to leave here whilst Spencer was ill," Brendon said, fiercely. "He saved my grandfather, and me. I'm not going to London until I know that Spencer's well."

"Well, at least he's a loyal one," he said, nodding at Brendon. "Which makes him better than Reinold. And it's London I've come to talk to Smith about."

"Do you need me to leave?" Brendon asked, uncertainly. He rocked anxiously from foot to foot, obviously unwilling to leave. Spencer pretended that was because Brendon wanted to make sure he wasn't being told he would be leaving Spencer behind, although Spencer knew that that line of hopeful thinking was best left ignored. It was more probable that Brendon merely wanted to know where he was being sent to, which was more than reasonable, all things considered.

"No, just keep quiet, there's a good chap." Ausfield nodded. "Now, it comes to my attention, Smith, that we may not have thought this through. Where in London can we house a workshop large enough to fly practice flying-craft from? Without alerting every French spy in the capital to their existence?"

Spencer blinked. That was a strangely important point, considering that neither of them had appeared to consider it. "We'd need a park," Spencer said.

"We'd need more than a bloody park, Smith," Ausfield said. "Now, I've been thinking. We'll make it worth your while, of course."

Spencer began to imagine all kinds of things, none of which sounded like fun for him. He was strangely unwilling to part from Brendon, though, and he considered it very strange that he had never been interested in flying-craft before. Now dirigibles were of the utmost importance and interest to him. "What did you have in mind?" he said, carefully, for the last time Ausfield had sprung something on him, it had involved two nights in a carriage on the road to Yorkshire.

"Well, if only we knew of someone with a house in the country, Smith," Ausfield said, watching Spencer out of the corner of his eye. "Someone with grounds, and maybe some green space spare. Somewhere we could erect some kind of building, a workshop perhaps. A barn, would you say, Mr. Urie? Big enough to house one of these full-size dirigibles?"

Brendon looked startled. "A barn?" he asked.

"Yes, a barn. Would you say a barn would be big enough to house a full-size dirigible?"

"Um, yes." Brendon said, thinking. "I would think so, although the doors would have to be the full height of the barn -"

Spencer's mind was beginning to whirl.

"It would have to be close enough to London that I didn't need to house up in one of those god-awful roadside inns," Ausfield went on, waving away Brendon's barn concerns. "Can't bear the damned places. And, it would need to be far enough a way that a test-flight wouldn't cause the breakdown of society as we know it, and it would need to have an owner amenable to certain, um, _alterations_ going on on their land. Can you think of anyone, Smith? Anywhere that might fit the bill?"

"I imagine," Spencer said, carefully, "that my house at Combe Russet might be all of those things."

"Excellent," Ausfield said, standing up. "Glad you offered it. I imagine work on renovating the barn to Mr. Urie's specifications will start very soon indeed."

"How soon?" Spencer asked, narrowing his eyes. He knew Ausfield of old.

"Oh, "Ausfield said, with a wink. "As soon as yesterday, I imagine."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "How long have you been planning this?" he asked, aware he was unlikely to get a straight answer. He'd been working alongside Ausfield for a number of years, now, and he never got any less wily. Ausfield never got any less good at his job, either, and aside from the probability that his mother was currently very, very surprised at the number of workmen in the grounds of her house, Spencer couldn't find fault with Ausfield's plan.

"A while," Ausfield said. "I've been eyeing up those grounds of yours for a centre for research for some time now," he admitted, which was a lot more than Spencer thought Ausfield would admit to. "The plans have been ready for some time. Your family will be paid well for the inconvenience."

It was the only time Ausfield had ever acknowledged the dire financial straits that Spencer's father had left his family in at the time of his death.

"Thank you," Spencer said. "That will mean a lot to my mother." He wriggled the fingers of his bound arm, wondering how long he would be out of action. It was difficult enough to cope with an injury, when he didn't already have his damaged leg to cope with. "What does this mean for me?" he asked, finally.

"Well," Ausfield said. "I will need someone to oversee these inventions, of course."

"But I know _nothing_ of science," Spencer pointed out, even though his heart was beating heavy in his chest at the very idea of being out in the country with Brendon.

"Who does?" Ausfield said. "We have our men of science for that." He shrugged, standing up and clapping a hand painfully to Spencer's shoulder. "But we still need someone in charge, and I am sure your cryptography skills are not limited to underground Whitehall, Smith. I am sure they will be just as usable out in the country."

"Are you side-lining me?" Spencer asked, because he couldn't _not_.

Ausfield looked surprised, even for him. "Never," he said. "You will be busier than ever, and I expect you to be at Whitehall often, too. Consider this a step up, Mr. Smith, and not down. You will oversee things at Combe Russet - " Spencer had often thought the name of his family home was a little ridiculous. Hearing Ausfield say it did not reduce that feeling in the slightest. " - and you will report to me in Whitehall."

Spencer nodded, a little bewildered by the turn of events. He didn't know what to say.

Brendon, however, did. "But what does this mean for me?" he asked. "Am I to live on Spencer's estate?"

Ausfield didn't look at Spencer. "For now, yes," he said. "If Smith will have you. But this is all details, details. Smith and I shall work them all out once he stops getting shot." He nodded at Spencer, with Ausfield giving him what passed for a grin in Ausfield's world. "For now, the team will concentrate on renovating the barn into a workshop with adequate security, - with appropriately high doors - and we'll run up a bunkhouse for your assistants and the agents we'll have there to protect you and your work. Any further renovations and building will come later."

"And when am I to leave?" Brendon asked, steadily. "I have gone along with this so far without question, and I am more than willing to work for the War Office under the terms you've already outlined to me -" Spencer wondered exactly what those terms were. Ausfield was a good task-master, and Spencer knew that his agents were never short-changed, but Spencer hoped that Brendon had the best deal possible. He wished he'd been a part of the negotiations. "But I won't live in Spencer's house unless he invites me, and I won't impose upon him and his family. I can stay in the bunkhouse too, when that is built."

"You will not," Spencer interrupted. "You will be my guest, if you will take it upon yourself to be so. I am certainly offering, at least. And I would be hurt if you chose not to accept my invitation to stay at Combe Russet as my guest, for as long as you need to."

Ausfield rolled his eyes. "The workshop won't be finished for a few weeks," he said, ignoring Brendon's protestations and Spencer's continued invitations for Brendon to stay with him, at the house. "But we cannot wait that long for you to resume working. You are too far from the War Office here, and I had thought that you could work in London for a while. We can house the prototype with ease in a workshop, although anything bigger may be difficult to transport when it comes to moving out to the country." He sighed. "The other alternative is that you remove to Combe Russet with Smith when he is well enough to travel, and we work out of one of the stable blocks there until the barn is renovated. We would assign you your own personal agent, if that were the plan most agreeable to you."

"Who?" Spencer asked quickly, without giving Brendon a chance to respond. "And we have cellars that Brendon could use as a workshop for now. Wine cellars. Plenty of them."

Ausfield watched him for a moment, his eyes narrowed. He missed little, and Spencer felt sure that he knew of the strange, whirlwind of emotions that was the inside of Spencer's head. Spencer didn't duck his head, although his cheeks pinked a little.

"I have been thinking of Zachary Hall," Ausfield said. "He has been in France too long, and I know he has spoken of wishing to be closer to home. I would rather he be assigned here than send him abroad again. And I believe the cellar workshop would be a viable option in the short term."

Spencer was faintly amused by how well Ausfield seemed to know the layout of his house and estate. "You could do no better than Zack Hall," Spencer said, to Brendon. "If you wished to move to Combe Russet when I go back there, then I would be more than happy to have a room made up for you and the cellars turned out. You could not be better protected than with Hall."

"I have been better protected by you," Brendon said, stoutly.

Something gleamed in Ausfield's eyes, but Spencer refused to rise to the bait.

"I would prefer it if Smith avoided getting shot again for the foreseeable future," Ausfield said. "Hall it is, then, and Mr. Urie will travel back to Combe Russet with you. Do you intend on spending long in bed?"

"As long as he needs to," Brendon said, fiercely. "He is not leaving before he is well enough."

"Quite the guard dog you've got there, Smith," Ausfield said. He looked quite happy about it, though, which Spencer found particularly odd. "I think I will go partake of a little more cherry cake, before the greedy buggers I've brought with me finish the lot," he said. "I shall leave for London in the morning, Smith. I'll need to sit down with you before that, but right now that cherry cake is calling." He glanced at Brendon, then at Spencer again, smiling to himself as he shut the door behind him.

Spencer looked at Brendon. "I did not ask you just to be polite," he said. "I would be honoured if you would come to Combe Russet as my guest."

"I do not wish to intrude," Brendon said.

"And I do not wish to be lonely again," Spencer admitted. "Please, Brendon. Be my guest."

Brendon ducked his head. "I would be honoured," he said softly. "Thank you."

Spencer bit his lip. His heart felt like it would beat right out of his chest. He smiled, and Brendon smiled right back at him.

  


The next time Spencer woke up, it was dark. The candle-lamp was almost out, the last half-hour of the candle guttering and flickering as it burned down.

Brendon was asleep leaning forward with his head on the bed, the hedgehog curled up beside him.

Spencer reached out and stroked at Brendon's hair with his good hand. Brendon murmured in his sleep, and Spencer closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

  


The journey south seemed so much worse than the journey north. Spencer's arm – although a lot better after five days rest, and now resting merely in a sling – still ached terribly, and hour after hour on the bumpy road south added further insult to injury.

Zachary Hall had arrived at the Urie house the day before, just in time for him to turn around and journey to Combe Russet with Spencer and Brendon. He was tall and wide and had endeared himself to Brendon by offering to carry the ugly orange kitten and her basket on his knee in the carriage.

Spencer could already feel the relief in allowing Hall the responsibility of protecting Brendon. Constant vigilance was not conducive to recovery, and he already felt easier without having to worry about what might happen if he turned his back for one second. He no longer felt the same compunction to refuse the doctor when he pressed him to take a dose of laudanum to numb the pain. He hated taking it, for it made him feel ill, but the journey seemed to go on for what felt like forever, and although the roads between Yorkshire and Combe Russet were good, the constant movement caused him nothing but pain.

He had wanted to stay alert, for Brendon's sake, for Brendon had found it terribly difficult to leave his grandfather and Mrs. Field behind. Even Sam Field had come out to wave off their carriage, and Spencer and Zack had had to spend the first five minutes of the coach journey determinedly looking out of the windows whilst Brendon sniffed into his handkerchief. He had looked happier when Spencer told him that his grandfather and Mrs. Field were free to visit whenever they wished to, and that Spencer would have rooms made up for them for however long they wished to stay.

After that, Spencer had felt easier about giving in to the pain. He hadn't been able to sleep and he hadn't been able to eat and even the hedgehog had seemed affected by so many hours trapped inside a carriage, but Spencer felt easier about Brendon, so he relented and took a dose of the laudanum as a soporific.

When he woke up, he found himself with his head on Brendon's shoulder, his cheek warm against Brendon's coat.

He closed his eyes for a few minutes more, and pretended he was still asleep.

  


Eventually the landscape began to seem familiar to Spencer again, although it was late the following day, and Spencer wasn't the only one wishing the journey were over. The horses were exhausted, and even Brendon was hard-pressed to manage a word as they rounded the last bend before reaching Combe Russet. Brendon looked bone-tired and weary, drooping a little as he tried to keep awake. The kitten meowed pitifully, and Zack Hall was keeping decidedly quiet about the scratches on his arms.

Spencer was sure he looked the worst of them all, though. He was worn-out and pale-skinned and thinner than he had been a week ago. Brendon and Hall kept shooting him sidelong, secret looks, keeping a close eye on him as the carriage pushed on the for the last stretch.

The noise of the carriage had alerted the house to their arrival, and as they pulled up, Spencer's mother was waiting for them with some of the servants by her side. The servants bobbed their heads as the carriage door opened, but it was Spencer's mother who walked right up to the door to greet them.

Spencer thought he had never been so glad to see her or Combe Russet. "Hullo, Mother," he said, as Brendon and Hall helped him down from the coach.

"Spencer," she said, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Spencer's cheek. She looked a little older than when Spencer had seen her last, but she still seemed as fresh as she ever had been, bright-eyed and smiling, even though there was a furrow in her brow and she was staring at his bandaged arm. "I wish you would come back to us un-injured. We like you so much better when you are not sporting another injury. Was it a horse this time again?"

Brendon was about to say something, but Spencer accidentally nudged him with his cane. "Something like that, Mother," he said, doing his best to keep the strain from his voice. "It is entirely possible I got in the way of another man's sport this time, though. Remind me to be more careful next time."

His mother tutted, and then dropped a neat, old fashioned curtsy at Zack and Brendon. "You are very welcome to Combe Russet," she said, and then leaned in so that Brendon could take her hand. "I imagine you are Mr. Urie," she said, with a smile Spencer recognised as her most disarming. "And you must be Mr. Hall."

"It is very kind of you to let us stay, Mrs. Smith," Brendon said, for Zack too would be staying in the house with Brendon and Spencer for the moment.

"It is quite something to have a house full of guests," Spencer's mother said, with a smile. "I can't imagine where you found these men who dig our grounds to nothing, Spencer, but I have to admit that all the hustle and bustle has been quite engaging!"

"Don't lie so, Mother," Spencer said, as she hooked her hand through Brendon's elbow and led them into the house, Brendon looking decidedly bewildered at the course of events. As he should be, because etiquette demanded that Spencer lead the way inside. But Spencer's mother had never been very good at standing on ceremony, and Spencer followed them slowly, with Zack bringing up the rear. "You have loved every moment of it."

"I confess, I have," She admitted, shooting a smile back at her son. "I have never seen such building work before. It is wonderful to see how they move such great heaps of stone and brick. The renovations to the barn are moving at quite a speed, Spencer, I had no idea that building work could happen so quickly. I confess, I have spent many hours watching them work. It is so very fascinating, I have learnt so much!"

Spencer had had little idea that building works could move so fast, either. He could only imagine that Ausfield had directed as much money and as many workers as he could towards the venture, and Brendon's workshop was the lucky recipient of Ausfield's current benevolence.

"I'm having tea brought in to the sitting room," his mother said, looking behind her at Spencer and smiling again. Her gaze flicked to his arm and back up to his face, and Spencer had to try his hardest not to react. His mother was an astute lady, and whilst Spencer had managed to hide his work from her so far, he was as sure as he could be that coming home in this state may well be the straw that finally broke the camel's back. Especially coupled with the extensive building work going on inside their grounds. She didn't say anything, though, just pushing open the door to the sitting room and leading them inside.

A tea tray was already waiting on the table by the settee. Spencer took his normal seat by the fireplace, and his mother came over and kissed him on the cheek. "I am so glad to see you at home, my dear," she said, softly. "I have missed you."

"You too, Mother," he said, and she squeezed his good shoulder and went to hand out slices of cake. When he looked up, Brendon was watching him, chewing on his lip.

When Spencer managed a tired, worn-out smile, Brendon smiled back at him, and Spencer let out a breath. He was home, and Brendon was safe. He could relax.

  


The barn renovations and the building of the bunk-house in the grounds of Combe Russet should have been a great undertaking, but the number of workmen and builders that Ausfield had rounded up for the job made it seem nothing short of simple. Certainly, there was a great deal of noise, and a great deal of mud, and Spencer's mother spent much of the spring directing staff outside with endless earthenware mugs of hot tea and thick sliced bread and meat pies, but aside from the disruption, Ausfield's building plans had not run into any great difficulties so far.

In fact, the bunk-house was almost complete, which Spencer imagined would make the builders' lives easier – the great tents and wooden huts where they were currently bedding down were no great protection against the late biting winds that the spring seemed to pride itself on. It would not make Brendon's life any easier just yet, however. They had, as planned, renovated one of the wine cellars into a workshop for Brendon's use in the interim. It was cramped, and it was dark, and even with the vents and grates that had been fitted high in the walls at the same time as the boiler, it was still stiflingly hot.

It would be better once it was not so _full_ , Spencer knew, but right now, the workshop in the barn was still incomplete and Brendon was working out of a room far smaller than the one he had been used to in Yorkshire, even taking into account the fact that many of his notes and plans were stored under guard in one of the other cellars.

Spencer knew how frustrating it must be for Brendon, but he never showed it. He worked tirelessly, never complaining when Zack got in his way and refused to leave him alone. Once Spencer's mother had convinced Brendon to join them in the sitting room after dinner, he started to write regularly to his grandfather, and to Mrs. Field. Sometimes Spencer read out loud, and kept them entertained with gruesome, terrifying tales from the well-read novels on the library shelves.

Brendon fashioned a book rest for Spencer so that whilst his arm was healing, he could turn the pages with greater ease, and not have to hold the book aloft for so long. He even fashioned a rest for the candle-lamp so that Spencer could better see the print as the evenings stretched out before them. His arm was almost better, with just a little residual stiffness, and none of the unrelenting pain that he had experienced with his leg.

Spencer grew to appreciate his evenings with Brendon like no other, and he hoped that Brendon felt the same. Brendon seemed to have settled into Combe Russet very well, and so had his hedgehog; William grew fatter than ever with both Spencer and his mother to dote upon him.

Brendon's kitten, however, had defected. Zack's early relationship with Jasmine had turned into one of adoration on both sides, for Jasmine followed Zack wherever he went, regardless of consequence. She meowed piteously whenever Zack left her behind.

Brendon seemed to bear the defection of his kitten to Zack very well. He still had his hedgehog, of course, and after all, Zack spent most of his time attending to Brendon in his workshop, the kitten wandering the worktops and curling up around Brendon's feet if he sat at the desk for longer than a few minutes.

Things were cramped, and they were noisy, and Spencer would be glad when the building work was finally complete, but he knew that he wouldn't have it any other way.

  


It was entirely possible, Spencer thought, that he could get used to living in the country. Spring had arrived at last, and then, with the passing of the months, so had summer, and still Spencer did not miss the hustle and bustle of everyday London life.

He was in London to meet with Ausfield, and to see Dawes for the last time before he was sent across the channel to France. Spencer still went up to London fairly regularly, for Ausfield did not seem to do without him as well as he had perhaps imagined, and Spencer was often called upon to go work under him for a number of days.

Sometimes Brendon went with him, ostensibly to collect tiny workings or metalwork that he felt he could not entrust to anybody else, but really to wonder at the great dome of Saint Paul's Cathedral or Westminster Abbey, and to stay with Spencer in his rooms. They would drink chocolate together in the coffee-houses, and Brendon would come to Whitehall with Spencer whilst he worked, and Brendon would spend far too many hours hunched over his notebooks, coming up with an endless series of drawings and notes that looked like nothing but an encrypted code that someone had forgotten to hand Spencer the cypher for. But this time he was alone, and he missed Brendon by his side, even for the few days he was away from him. He had grown so very used to him being around, and it was hard to fall back into the quiet, lonely life he had been so familiar with when he had been working beneath Whitehall.

Spencer was going to miss Dawes greatly, but he could not dispute that he had less use for a manservant such as Dawes now that he was mostly out in the country at Combe Russet. Ausfield had seen fit to request that Dawes be sent abroad, and Spencer was reminded for the hundredth time how wily a man Ausfield was, for it had lately become abundantly clear from the papers Spencer was working through that Dawes' employment prior to working with Spencer had been as a manservant in Paris, in Ausfield's employ. It was likely, although the only confirmation Spencer had for this particular line of thought was a prolonged pause in conversation and a twinkle in Ausfield's eye, that Dawes had worked closely with the elusive Lady-Z, the celebrated and anonymous spy that London's newspapers lauded triumphantly across their front pages.

Lady-Z's identity was a secret that not even Spencer knew, but it was hardly a secret at all that the information she had brought from Paris over the years had led to the capture of one high-ranking French official after another. How she eluded capture or identification after so long was a mystery, but she did, and the information kept feeding out of France. She was arguably Britain's greatest spy, and rumour had it that she did it all from a position of great and celebrated power right in the heart of Paris. And Dawes had worked with her, until he'd put himself in danger and had had to hide out in London for a year to evade capture.

"I could not have managed without you," Spencer said, once Dawes' bags had been loaded onto the carriage and all that was left to do was for Spencer to say thank you, and god speed, and good luck. He knew what it felt like to come from working in peril and danger to coming back and pretending to be a civil servant, and although he wouldn't choose the route back into danger that Dawes had, he wished him all the luck in the world.

Dawes coloured a little, and then, without warning, he leaned in and squeezed Spencer's shoulder, leaning in even closer so that the coach driver could not hear. "Your friend," he said, urgently. "Ross. Ryan Ross. He was safe last time I heard. Safe and well, not three months since. I thought you should know."

It was the only time Spencer had heard definite word of Ryan since he had left for France after they had come up from university, and it was all Spencer could do to blink a few times and wipe his eyes on his sleeve as soon as he was able. He thought that Dawes was unlikely to be Jon's real name, but he begged him to get in contact when he was in England again, whatever the circumstance.

"I shall be abroad some time, I believe," Dawes said, carefully, stepping back. The coach driver watched them in ill-disguised interest. "But do not think I am not grateful for the offer. When this is over I shall come to find you." His words weighed heavy, and Spencer had to take a moment to compose his response.

Spencer nodded, his throat thick. "Pray," he said, _if you see Ryan_ \- he swallowed. "I am very well," he said, finally. "I desire that to be what my friends are told, if they are concerned."

Dawes nodded, before heaving himself awkwardly up into the coach. "God speed," he said, and then he was gone, the carriage throwing up all the dust and dirt that a fortnight of little rain had left on London's streets as it rounded the corner, away from sight.

Spencer waited a moment before going back inside. The door closed heavily behind him, and when he was safe in the privacy of his sitting-room, he pressed his hands to his face and tried to remember how to breathe. _Ryan_ , his Ryan, who he had almost given up hope of ever hearing from again! He had begun to fear the worst after so long with so little word, and to have news that he was still alive and well was almost too much to bear.

He sat on the edge of his sofa with his leg out in front of him, and tried to catch his breath. He hoped fervently – as he had for all these months and years – that Ryan was not in too much danger. He hoped that wherever Dawes was going, he too would not be in a position of great danger, although he knew that to be false hope. Wherever Dawes was going, and wherever Ryan was, it was going to be dangerous. He reached for his cool cup of tea, and drank it down even though it was almost cold.

It steadied his nerves a little, and when the rap at the door came to let him know that the coach had arrived from Combe Russet to take him back home, he was able to greet his coachman with easy civility.

He was never sad to leave London behind him, and as he waited by the door as his baggage was loaded onto the roof of the carriage, watching the hustle and bustle of his busy street, he longed only for home, for Combe Russet and Brendon and his family.

The longing for home was only made worse by the basket awaiting him inside the carriage. Packed by his mother, there was pie and sandwiches and the first of the apples from the orchard, and resting on top, a note in Brendon's handwriting.

Unable to stop himself from smiling, he bit his lip and ran the tip of his finger under the seal. Brendon had used Spencer's seal for months now, and Spencer could not help but secretly appreciate just how well Brendon had adapted to life at Combe Russet. He was busy, certainly, and he spent most of his time either in the dirigible workshop in the grounds, or in his own private workshop in the wine cellars – now blessedly free of most of his boxes of work, and decidedly less cramped and hot - but there was also time for eating dinner together, or taking a turn about the grounds in the evening.

Brendon would speak of rudders, and geometry the likes of which Spencer had had little idea of before Brendon had started talking to him of it. Spencer would talk about cryptography, and the way he found the layers of meaning to be engrossing and stimulating in a way that working out in the field in France had never been. And sometimes they would stand at the stile by the edge of the park, and Brendon would slide his hand into the crook of Spencer's elbow, and Spencer would find it difficult to talk because of the proximity, and the want, and they would stand quietly instead, until they had to turn about and return to the house.

Brendon's note started with a passage Spencer could barely make head nor tail of; a description of the physics of flight, perhaps, although Spencer spent a moment wondering if it was in fact a cypher that Brendon had forgotten to give him the key to. It ended, however, on a quick and untidy, _the rudder is finally flight-worthy_ , and then underneath, _I wish that you would hurry back so that I may show you_.

Spencer's cheeks pinked, and he bit at his lip. With the sprawl of London town behind him now, and the bustle and the smell and the crowded, noisy streets dying away under the sound of the horses' hooves and the carriage wheels, he couldn't bring himself to miss a single thing about it. He was going home.

  


"Are you sure that you wish for my grandfather and Mrs. Field and Sam to stay in the house with your family?" Brendon asked. "I am sure that they would be quite happy in the bunkhouse. I am quite certain that there is room for them there. It would save your family from making up rooms."

Spencer suppressed the inclination to roll his eyes. "I am quite sure," he said, for what felt like the fiftieth time since Brendon had hesitantly mentioned inviting his family and friends down to Combe Russet so they could see the prototype dirigible launch for the first time. "I would not hear of them staying anywhere else, and neither would my mother."

Brendon nodded and didn't say anything, wiping a sheen of sweat away from his brow with a dirty neckerchief. The dirigible was just weeks away from its first flight, all calculations considered, and the barn was a hive of energy and heat as Brendon's assistants clambered all over the frame, checking rivets and fastenings and measurements. Spencer's mother – who had to be forcibly removed from the barn every evening – was leaning over one of the steam-engines, a long smudge of oil across her cheek as she assisted Zack in checking the dials as he stoked up the fire. She was wearing a long leather apron to cover her clothes, and her sleeves were rolled up far further than was decent.

She had proved herself to be a more than willing student of all that Brendon had to teach her, and she had confided to Spencer on more than one occasion that she wished that she had been in a position to learn all of these things at some earlier point in her life. She understood with ease many of the things that Spencer found confusing at first, and more than one evening in recent memory had been spent with his mother patiently explaining to him one of the more complicated theories from one of her books. She seemed younger than ever, and book after book kept arriving from London for her, inexplicable tomes full of mathematics and physics and too-tiny print. They took pride of place on the shelves in the library next to the novels they all enjoyed and fought over as soon as they arrived from the publishers, the scurrilous, barely-disguised revelations about London's upper echelons standing side by side next to the Gothic novels that Spencer and his sisters had grown up reading. He was re-reading _Frankenstein_ for the eleventh time at the moment, when he wasn't too busy working.

"Your mother -" Brendon started, hesitantly. He leaned over the rail, looking down at the workshop, watching. The walkway had been constructed all the way around the edge of the barn, at a height that made working on the upper parts of the dirigible easier. A number of draw-bridges sliced the barn into three, and each of them had people hanging off them, working on the top of the dirigible frame.

"– is happier than she has been since my father passed away," Spencer said, softly. His cane felt uncomfortable in his hot palm; he adjusted his gait a little, taking more of the pressure on his good leg for a moment. "Thank you for letting her help out."

Brendon shrugged awkwardly. "I could not," he started, then he ducked his gaze, his eyelashes brushing his freckled cheek. "I would not refuse her anything," he said, finally, "because she is your mother, but -"

"Brendon," Spencer said, desperately, unable to help himself.

"Your mother is a brilliant woman," Brendon continued, and he looked down at the workshop again. "She tells me she enjoys working here, and she understands exactly what it is she has to do without me even having to explain. She explains to Zack when she thinks I am not listening. And she tells me all about this park, and your home." He stopped, and Spencer had to stop himself from reaching out and taking Brendon's hand, as he truly wished. "I hope that my grandfather has the chance to speak with her. I think he would very much like to hear her talk about the park."

"I'm sure they will," Spencer said. His own meeting with Brendon's grandfather had been a haphazard, badly organised affair, sandwiched in-between an ill-advised otter watching trip on Brendon's grandfather's part, and a particularly bad night's sleep on Spencer's. Nevertheless, Spencer had very much liked the elderly gentleman, who, although gruff, clearly loved his grandson very much. He had much to say on the subject of Brendon's inventions, and a lot to say about otters, and that hadn't left very much space for Spencer to speak at all. He'd been left with the impression of an old man, set in his ways but extremely clever and knowledgeable about his chosen subject – be that nature or his grandson. He looked forward to meeting him again, and Mrs. Field and her son, too.

"And I hope to meet your sisters, too," Brendon offered, hesitantly. "Your mother has told me much about them."

Spencer allowed himself a smile. "They will love to meet you, I'm sure," he said. He was very fond of his younger sisters, and he liked their husbands very much too. Secretly, part of his initial joy at their early marriages had been keenly felt relief – trying to keep his work secret when his family had spent the greater part of the year in the same town had been a lot harder than he had initially expected. Several lengthy trips to the continent had had to be covered up, and it was made even harder when he returned home thin and hungry after a particularly difficult number of weeks spent mostly in hiding in the French countryside.

He also remembered the parties he'd had to attend during Jacqueline and Crystal's début, and the ball his mother had thrown in their honour. He had had to spend a considerable amount of time pretending to look pleased to dance with a bevy of pretty but excitable young debutantes, when Spencer had been more interested in sneaking away early and disappearing back to his rooms to catch up on his work. At university he had been more social, but then he had had Ryan and Kit to spend time with, and with Ryan out of the country and Kit seemingly so busy with his own War Office work at the time, Spencer had seen little of him and had spent much of his free time alone.

Spencer knew that his mother very much wished to invite his sisters and their husbands to Combe Russet for the launch of Brendon's dirigible, but the necessity for a certain degree of secrecy had up until now put her off. They could little hide the hustle and bustle of workmen and staff in the grounds of Spencer's home, nor could they hide from interested local eyes the building of the bunkhouse and Brendon's workshop and outbuildings, but the intention had been to keep the number of people who knew about the dirigible as low as possible for as long as possible. Ausfield had rolled his eyes and said that it was high time Napoleon knew of Britain's capacity for air-flight, and although Spencer had persuaded Ausfield to wait until the first flight had been successful before lauding air-travel to the skies, the necessity for secrecy had at least been lifted a little.

Spencer's mother's eyes had gleamed when she heard, and Spencer knew what that meant – invitations to his sisters and their families had been summarily dispatched, with Ausfield's seal of approval. Spencer's mother did love to have her family around her, and her particularly ill-hidden joy at dispatching invitations to his sisters had led Spencer to feel a little concerned that his mother may be planning something for his upcoming birthday, which was due to fall a week or so before the first dirigible flight. Spencer very much hoped his mother wasn't planning anything particularly grand, as he wasn't sure if he could stand it, and he was very much sure that Brendon couldn't. Brendon had worked very hard since his arrival at Combe Russet, and he was much more comfortable in company than he had been when he had first arrived, but he was still quiet when they had guests.

Spencer sighed, and took a long look around the busy workshop. Brendon – leaning over the rail with his hedgehog curled up in his palm, pointed down at where Spencer's mother and Zack were tinkering with the steam-engine.

"We are really going to do it," he said, softly, his hedgehog nibbling grumpily on Brendon's sleeve. "We are going to fly."

Spencer curled his fingers into Brendon's elbow, just for a moment. "Because of you," he said, and Brendon blushed.

Down on the workshop floor, Spencer's mother spied them watching, and she straightened up, lifting an arm in greeting. Spencer could not hide his smile, and he waved back; next to him, Brendon waved too.

  


The announcement came a week before his birthday, just when Spencer thought that he was safe and there was no time left for his mother to reveal anything particularly grand.

"We're having an evening's entertainment for Spencer's birthday," Spencer's mother said brightly, coming to sit beside Brendon and Spencer as they sat by the fireplace after dinner.

"Mother -" Spencer said, exasperatedly. William was in Brendon's lap, curling up in the crook of Brendon's arm as Brendon fed him tiny bits of broken biscuit. "I hope you have not planned a party, for I do not wish -"

"Shush, dear," His mother put her hand on Brendon's arm. "Nobody cares if you want a celebration or not. Brendon, I know that you are not one for parties, but this will be only small, and we would be honoured if you would join us."

Brendon had tended to make himself scarce whenever Spencer or his mother had guests, declining invitations to dinner in favour of spending the evening in his workshop with the dirigible.

Brendon's cheeks pinked. "I -" he started. He darted a glance at Spencer, dropping his gaze. His eyelashes brushed his cheek, and Spencer found himself imagining stroking his thumb across Brendon's skin. "I am not good in company," he said, haltingly, and Spencer could see the way Brendon's hands gripped the arms of the old chair.

"Nonsense," Spencer's mother smiled at him. "It is only us. Spencer, and myself, and Jacqueline has written to say that she and Mr. Nathaniel will journey down a little earlier than anticipated and stay. I have written to Crystal, too, and asked that she come early. The baby will be six months old soon, fancy that! They will be here tomorrow. See, it will be just us, just family, and Spencer would very much like you to be there."

Spencer wondered grimly when his mother had started organising this, and concluded that it could not have been recently. She was as wily as Ausfield, and he did not believe for a second that Jacqueline and Crystal's invitations had not been issued for tomorrow's date when his mother had written to invite them to stay for the dirigible launch.

"I wondered why the rooms were being turned out so early," he said. "I thought Jacqueline and Crystal were not arriving for a fortnight."

"Hush, Spencer," his mother said, "Brendon is speaking."

Brendon shook his head, pink-cheeked and awkward. William pressed his nose against Brendon's palm, wanting more biscuit, and when he saw there was no more to be had, he climbed into Brendon's hand and nosed at his shirt sleeve. "I would not want to intrude," Brendon said, softly, uncomfortably.

"You could never intrude," Spencer's mother went on. She opened her hand to reveal a little of the meat from dinner on a handkerchief, and she held it out for Brendon to take. "For the hedgehog," she said, smiling. "We do not often have a chance to celebrate," she went on, as Brendon awkwardly took the handkerchief and opened it out on his leg, urging William off his hand and towards the food. "Soon we will all be caught up in the magic of your flying-craft, and we will not get to sit together as a family for some time. Say you will join us, Brendon. Please?"

"It is just -" Brendon started. He shrugged, picking up a little of the food for William to eat it out of his fingers. "I do not know what to do in company," he admitted, speaking quickly. "I do not know how to behave. I would not want to embarrass you."

Spencer's chest ached. His fingers itched to take Brendon's hand in his. He fiddled with his tea cup instead, trying to ignore the quick – and pointed - glance his mother shot in his direction.

"It is just a birthday party, Brendon," Spencer's mother told him, gently.

Brendon let William climb up onto his hand again, and he stroked at William's nose with the tip of his finger. There was still the faint remnants of oil staining his skin from where he had been working all day long on the dirigible, and Spencer found his mouth suddenly dry. He licked his lips.

"I haven't -" Brendon said. Then, "Surely it is just for family?"

Spencer searched for his voice. "Please, Brendon," he said. "Have tea with us on my birthday."

"There will be cake," Spencer's mother said.

Brendon looked hesitant. He nodded. "That would be nice," he said, finally, a little hoarsely.

Spencer watched as his mother's hand tightened on Brendon's sleeve, just for a moment. "That's good," she said, finally. "I shall have Cook make your favourite sponge."

"There's no need -" Brendon said.

"There is," Spencer said, suddenly. His mother turned to him, and smiled.

"I'll ring for more tea," she said, and she leaned in to kiss Spencer's temple, her hand still on Brendon's arm.

Spencer found himself smiling, and when his mother moved away, Spencer leaned in and held his hand out for William to sniff, and then lick. "Thank you," he said, softly.

"Thank you for asking me," Brendon said, after a moment. He scooped the hedgehog up, and held him out. "Would you like to hold him?"

Spencer couldn't help but smile. He was pink-cheeked and warm, but he couldn't hide it, not from Brendon. Not now. "Please," he said, and he held out his hands for the hedgehog.

Brendon bit his lip, and smiled.

  


The house seemed very different with his sisters and their husbands staying. There was more noise and meals lasted longer and he was forever being asked to hold his nephew - a tiny, adorable, crying bundle of a baby who had wormed his way into Spencer's heart from the very first time he'd held him. His mother was more animated, too; she'd clearly missed her daughters much more than she'd let on, even to Spencer.

Brendon was spending longer in his workshop since their arrival, though, and he seemed awkward and deliberately quiet whenever Spencer tried to draw him into conversation about what he was working on. The dirigible was almost finished, more than ready for its first test flight, and Spencer could think of no reason why Brendon should lock himself away for hour after hour. Spencer thought about Ausfield in London, depending on Spencer to encrypt and record Brendon's research for safe-keeping, and he heaved a sigh, deciding to let it drop until after his birthday. It was likely that Brendon had never spent so long with so many people before, and Spencer was constantly aware of how unsure Brendon seemed whenever he was drawn into the company of Spencer's family. He had taken to missing meals again, and Spencer was starting to worry.

"Should we wait?" Jacqueline asked uncertainly, when dinner had been served a good ten minutes previously and Brendon still hadn't arrived.

"No," Spencer said, shortly, ignoring the raised eyebrows of Jacqueline and Crystal's husbands. "Excuse me, I'll go and see if dinner has slipped his mind. Please eat, though, I'll be back shortly."

He left the dining room behind him, the murmur of his family's voices following him down the hallway and through the door in the study that led down to Brendon's other workshop. He had the workshop out in the grounds, the renovated barn, but he kept coming back to the tiny converted wine cellar under Spencer's study where he'd first worked while they were waiting for the outside work to be completed. He kept coming back here when he wanted somewhere quiet and private and out of the way to work

The door at the bottom of the stairs was closed, for once, and when Spencer tried the handle, it was locked. Normally Brendon's quiet and private work did not exclude Spencer, and more than once Spencer had peered around the door only to catch Brendon feeding sunflower seeds to his hedgehog when he should have been working on the dirigible plans spread out in front of him.

"Brendon," he called, knocking his knuckles against the heavy oak of the locked door. "Brendon."

There came the sound of scuffling from inside, and then Brendon's voice through the door. "Spencer. Uh. What do you want?"

Spencer felt confused. "You're late for dinner," he said, a little bewildered. He sniffed, trying to figure out what Brendon was working on, but there wasn't anything particularly unusual in the air, just the familiar smell of the steam boiler and the coal fire that seemed to permeate every corner of the house and grounds now.

"Oh," Brendon said, still through the door. "Um. I'm not hungry."

Spencer tried the handle again. "You've locked the door," he said. Something wriggled in his belly, and he couldn't help the twitch in his fingers, the beginnings of fear. He started to wish that his sisters had never visited, that things could have stayed the way they were before. He didn't like how Brendon was _different_ now that they were here. He wondered if Zack knew what Brendon was up to.

"I'm, uh. I'm busy," Brendon said. "And not hungry. Just busy."

Spencer swallowed. He was filled with the strangest feeling, the queerest desire to break down the door just to check that Brendon was alright. He imagined taking Brendon's arm, just to make sure that he wasn't hurting, and his mouth dried at the thought of Brendon's skin beneath his fingertips.

"I could ask Cook to put some aside for you later," Spencer offered, hesitantly.

There was a pause. "Thank you," Brendon said, softly, and Spencer had to strain to hear through the heavy door. "That would be nice."

Spencer nodded, even though Brendon couldn't see him. "Can I get you anything now?" he asked, because this felt strange. This distance between them felt odd and uncomfortable to him, after so many months working so closely alongside Brendon.

"No – I'm fine," Brendon said. There was a pause. "But thank you, Spencer."

"That's alright," Spencer said, awkwardly.

"I'll see you in the morning," Brendon said.

Spencer swallowed. "Oh," he managed. He pressed his hand to the warm oak, and imagined Brendon on the other side of the door, doing the same. "Good night, then."

He waited a moment, but Brendon didn't say anything else, and Spencer had no choice but to turn away and walk back up the steps into his study, still moving slowly with his damaged leg.

He had made it back into the study when he heard Brendon call after him, and the sound of Brendon's footsteps on the stairs.

"Spencer," Brendon said, awkwardly. He was stripped to his shirt sleeves, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, an oily rag over his shoulder, his goggles perched high on his head. He was dirty and oily and his skin shone with sweat; Spencer bit at his lip and begged his body not to give him away. Brendon's belt hung heavy with the weight of his tools, his trousers low on his hips, and Spencer had to drag his gaze up to where Brendon was holding his hedgehog out towards Spencer.

"Uh -" Spencer managed, weakly.

"Will you take him?" Brendon asked, and Spencer couldn't be sure whether it was a blush that coloured Brendon's cheekbones or just the heat from working close to the boiler, but his skin was pink and flushed. "He's getting everywhere," Brendon went on, speaking too quickly. "I can't keep an eye on him, will you? Just for tonight?"

Spencer swallowed. "Of course," he said, and he held his hands out.

As Brendon passed William over, their fingers brushed, and Spencer swallowed down a breath.

"He's probably hungry," Brendon said, all in a rush. "But he's been running around for hours, he might go to sleep if you let him in your pocket."

Spencer swallowed, and nodded. "Fine," he said, softly. "I'll look after him for you."

Brendon worked at his lip with his teeth. "Thank you," he said, softly, and before Spencer could say anything else, he'd turned and gone back down the stairs, leaving Spencer in the middle of his study clutching a hedgehog that looked decidedly grumpy.

"Oh," Spencer said, after a moment. "Right." He looked down at William, and stroked at his nose with his finger. William sniffed him, disinterestedly, and went back to nosing at Spencer's shirtsleeves. "No food there, old thing," Spencer told him, with a lopsided smile, as William bit at his sleeve. "I suppose we had better go join the others for dinner."

William nosed at him in reply, and Spencer sighed, heading back down the hallway towards the dining room.

"Brendon is not joining us for dinner?" His mother asked, as he sat back down for dinner. He let the hedgehog on to the table, and reached for a saucer to pour him some water.

"No," Spencer said, shortly.

"...But the hedgehog is?" Jacqueline's husband asked, and Spencer wasn't stupid enough not to notice the edge of incredulity to his voice.

"Yes," Spencer said, evenly. "Could you pass the bowl of raisins and nuts?"

Crystal passed the bowl down the table, and Spencer nodded his thanks. He thought that maybe it _was_ odd, keeping a bowl of hedgehog treats on the dining table, but William was house-trained and inquisitive and bright, and more than any of that, he was Brendon's, and if allowing the hedgehog at the table made Brendon feel more at home in Spencer's house, then Spencer was going to let that continue to happen regardless of how many raised eyebrows that induced in his guests. He scooped out a few nuts and raisins and put them on to another saucer, next to the water.

William lapped at the water for a moment, and then pressed his cold, wet nose to Spencer's fingers.

Jacqueline leaned across and covered Spencer's hand with her own, just for a moment. "Shall I put a plate aside for Brendon? For him to eat later?"

Spencer let out a breath. "Please," he said, and he let his relief show in a smile. "Thank you."

She smiled back at him, and Spencer's chest relaxed, just a little. The hedgehog nosed at his palm, and Spencer managed a smile.

  


When Spencer awoke, it was to the sound of a knock at his bedroom door, and Brendon calling his name in a low voice.

It was light outside, but still early, and Spencer yawned, clumsily drawing himself up onto his elbows and blinking away sleep. He had slept poorly, strangely aware he was sleeping in the same room as a hedgehog. It wasn't new to him, for Brendon had spent the night in Spencer's bedroom with his hedgehog after Spencer had been shot, but it was still just as strange an experience this time around. William wasn't as nocturnal as perhaps he had once been destined to be, but he still made tiny sniffly noises and ate nuts and raisins noisily when Spencer was trying to sleep. Even him lapping at his water bowl was noisy in the dead quiet of the night.

Spencer had put him to sleep on a folded blanket in a wooden packing crate near to the fireplace; the fire – banked down low, for it was still summer, even though the weather occasionally suggested otherwise - was behind a screen and Spencer had made extra sure to ensure that there were no tiny gaps that a hedgehog might be able to get through. He'd had to remind himself that William spent most of his life in Brendon's workshop, and he'd never yet been injured, before he'd finally let himself fall asleep.

"Come in," Spencer said, his voice rough and sleepy. He belatedly tried to pull the covers a little further up, aware of how his nightshirt was loose and old, falling down over one shoulder and showing a lot more bare skin than Spencer tended to be comfortable sharing. He remembered the night after he'd been shot in the arm, when Brendon had slept on the chair next to him, and Spencer had run his fingers through Brendon's hair, and stroked at his cheek with the tips of his fingers. He shivered, despite suddenly feeling hot all over.

Brendon peered around the door. "Can I come in?" he asked, and Spencer nodded.

"Good morning," Spencer managed, horribly aware that his leg was still uncommonly stiff in the mornings and getting out of bed was an uncomfortable, awkward and ungainly process. He sat up, instead, and drew his good knee up to his chest.

"Happy Birthday," Brendon said, and Spencer startled. He'd actually forgotten.

"Thank you," he said, hesitantly.

Brendon's mouth curved into a smile. He dropped to his knees and scooped up his hedgehog from his makeshift bed by the fireplace, and held him close so that William could nose at Brendon's neck. "Hello, you," he said, smiling, and William made a snuffly noise and curled up in Brendon's hands. "Did he behave?" he asked Spencer, perching on Spencer's bed as if Spencer wasn't dressed in only his underclothes beside him.

"Very well indeed," Spencer said, painfully aware of how close Brendon was to him. "He barely disturbed me at all."

"Good," Brendon said, and Spencer couldn't help but smile at Brendon's infectious joy at being reunited with his pet.

"You're up early," Spencer ventured, after a while. He felt so very odd, tense and on fire and breathless, and even though he tried telling himself it wasn't to do with Brendon here in his bedroom, he knew very well that it was. He could not deny the way he felt about his friend.

"Oh," Brendon said. "Yes, I am." He cleared his throat, his cheeks pink. "I wondered. Would you – I made -" He stopped, clearing his throat again.

"Brendon?" Spencer stopped himself from reaching out, and curling his fingers around Brendon's wrist. He held the covers tight in his fist, instead.

"I made you something," Brendon said, stroking at William's nose with the tip of his finger. Brendon's cheeks were flushed, and he was caught, just for a moment, in a sunbeam through the gap in the drapes. Spencer wanted to smooth his thumbs across Brendon's cheekbones, and count the freckles beneath his touch.

"For me?" Spencer asked.

"Yes, for your birthday." Brendon bit at his lip. "Will you come and see it with me?"

"You can't show me here?" Spencer asked, ever-mindful of how self-conscious he was about his leg.

Brendon shook his head. "It's outside," he said. "You should also get dressed." He seemed to remember where he was, then, and he stood up quickly. "I could, uh. I could meet you downstairs."

Spencer swallowed. "No -" he said, and Brendon's head jerked up. "I mean. Could you pass me my cane? And, uh. Maybe help me up? I need my dressing gown."

Brendon coloured. "Of course," he said, and he seemed uncomfortable, looking back and forth between Spencer's cane, and the dressing gown hanging by the door, and down at William. He nodded, and put William down on the bed, and then darted over to the door and back again, helping Spencer in to his dressing gown.

"It's just hard sometimes, that's all," Spencer told him, flushed and embarrassed at having to ask Brendon for assistance standing up. "In the mornings. It's better once I've walked around a little, walked the stiffness off. Then it's fine."

"I know," Brendon nodded, and once he's helped Spencer to stand up, he stood back, and scooped his hedgehog back up again. "You know, you need a _frame_."

"The cane works perfectly well, thank you," Spencer said, stiffly.

"No -" Brendon said, quickly. "I didn't mean. I just meant. If you had a frame here -" he pointed at the wall by Spencer's bed. "A handle, maybe. And something you could hold on to _here_ , well. You could probably get out of bed a little easier. On the days where it's bad, I mean."

Spencer blinked, and nodded. "Yes," he said, pulling his robe tighter around him. He was very aware that he was still in his nightclothes when Brendon was fully dressed ...in the same clothes he'd been wearing last night, Spencer realised with a start. "Brendon – did you go to sleep in your clothes last night?"

"I didn't go to sleep," Brendon said. "I was working on -" he stopped. "Come downstairs and see," he said, finally, biting back a wide smile. He tugged his fob watch out of his belt and checked the time. "It's already nearly seven."

"I should get dressed," Spencer said, awkwardly.

"There's no time," Brendon told him, tugging at Spencer's sleeve. "You can get dressed _later_."

"But -" Spencer protested, because he was a gentleman, and gentlemen didn't come downstairs in their nightshirts, it just wasn't _done_.

"You'll _miss_ it," Brendon insisted, and his steadfast expression changed Spencer's mind. It was hard enough refusing Brendon anything when he wasn't looking like he did now, bright-eyed and smiling, his eyes shining. When he looked at Spencer like this, it was nigh on impossible.

"Alright," he said, and he nodded, resting on his cane. He didn't like to say he needed to take Brendon's arm if he had to manage the stairs this early in the day, when his leg was still so stiff, but Brendon offered him his arm without being asked.

Spencer ducked his head and slipped his hand into the crook of Brendon's elbow, and between them, they walked into the hallway and down the stairs into the hall.

Brendon led him through the sitting room and out on to the terrace; there they turned the corner around to the south side of the house, following the terrace as it curved around the elderly brickwork of the Smith family home, and then they stopped. Under the study window sat a bench. It had not been there the day before, because Spencer walked the perimeter of the house every day after breakfast, to ease the ache in his leg. Opposite the bench stood a tall, handsome, grandfather clock, which was another thing that hadn't been there the day before.

It was also clearly on fire.

"Brendon," Spencer said in alarm, as soon as he saw the smoke coming from the top of the clock. He gripped Brendon's arm even tighter than he already was. "That clock's on fire, we must get water -"

Brendon _laughed_. "It's not on fire, Spencer," he said, and he brushed Spencer's chest with the back of his hand, pointing. "It's steam-powered. It's a steam-powered clock. I built it for you. For your birthday."

Spencer suddenly had to blink rapidly. _A cinder_ , he told himself. "What?" he managed, but he was already moving even closer towards the clock. _His_ clock. It stood taller than both of them, a wooden frame housing a series of metal workings: cogs and pistons and what Spencer thought he recognised as a chain lift. Not a pendulum in sight.

"Happy Birthday," Brendon said, softly, when Spencer turned to face him, open-mouthed.

"How did you -" Spencer started, but he couldn't think of what to say. He turned around. "Was this what you were working on? Last night? How long did it take you?"

Brendon shrugged, biting his lip. "I couldn't let you in because you'd see," he explained. "Some of the parts I was waiting for only arrived yesterday, and I didn't think I'd have it finished in time."

Spencer curved his fingers around Brendon's wrist. "Thank you," he said, breathlessly, and Brendon smiled.

"Sit down," he said, "and watch it recognise the hour."

Spencer sat down awkwardly, his leg still refusing to behave, locked straight. He pulled his robe closer around him, trying not to think about how he was outside his house in the early hours, dressed only in slippers and his nightclothes, and how anyone might see. He couldn't bring himself to care, overwhelmed by what was in front of him. The clock stood regal and tall, the metalwork housed in a wooden casing on a heavy base.

"I've never seen anything like it," he managed, finally, once he was sure he could depend on his voice not shaking.

"I think I invented it," Brendon said, sitting down on the bench next to Spencer. His knee brushed Spencer's, and Spencer's whole body trembled in anticipation and excitement. He tried to damp it down, but he just couldn't. Brendon let William down onto his lap, and the hedgehog nosed inquisitively at Brendon's sleeve, before clambering across to Spencer's lap.

Spencer held his finger out without thinking, and William sniffed it disinterestedly before turning around and curling up. "It's incredible," he said, softly, because it was.

"Shhh," Brendon said, and he slid his hand into the crook of Spencer's arm. "Listen, it's going to strike the hour."

Spencer bit at his lip and watched as the clock struck seven. A series of metal tubes located above the clock face began to whistle, and Spencer couldn't help it, he started to laugh. He turned to look at Brendon, and his breath caught in his throat. Brendon was smiling, his eyes bright, and all Spencer wanted to do was close the distance between them and press his mouth to Brendon's.

"Do you like it?" Brendon asked.

"More than anything," Spencer said, without looking at the clock.

"I'm glad," Brendon said, seriously. "There are four whistles, do you see? The three smaller ones each chime a quarter hour, and the larger one, there, look, that chimes the hour and the other ones echo it."

"I see," Spencer told him. He'd never seen anything so clearly in his whole life.

"It may still break down," Brendon warned him. "It's still in the early stages of development. It relies on a piston engine powered by the steam, and that rotates, drives the gears and that controls the chain lift, look." He pointed, and Spencer watched as a long, taut chain loop at the front of the workings very, very slowly lifted one metal ball after another up and around and down. "That's unevenly weighted," Brendon explained, "and I discovered that by accident when I was working on the dirigible. Because of how uneven it is, it works just like a pendulum would in a normal clock, see?"

Spencer didn't see, but he didn't care. Brendon was animated and excited and Spencer _loved him_. "You invented this for me," he said, finally, desperately aware of Brendon's knee pressing up against his.

"Yes," Brendon said, his brow furrowing as if Spencer had said something stupid. "For your birthday."

"Thank you," Spencer said, again. "It's the most wonderful gift I've ever received."

Brendon's cheeks flushed. "I wanted to do something nice for you," he said, ducking his gaze. His eyelashes brushed his cheeks, and Spencer had to stop himself from leaning in and touching his hand to Brendon's face. "You've done so much for me, inviting me in to your home. You didn't have to -"

"I did," Spencer said.

Brendon met his gaze, eyes wide. "Spencer -"

"I did," Spencer said, again, more seriously this time. Brendon ducked his head again, and Spencer bit his lip. He didn't want to make Brendon feel uncomfortable. "Will you tell me how it works, please?" he asked, because he didn't want to argue. He wanted to sit here with Brendon in the early morning sunshine, and watch his steam clock count the minutes away.

Brendon's mouth curved into a smile, and he began to talk.

Spencer scooped William up into his hand, and settled in to listen.

  
  


  


  


"I do not know how to thank you," Spencer said, that evening. It was late, and the sun had long gone down behind the trees. He had been trying to find a way to properly express his thanks all day, through the birthday dinner and tea with his mother and sisters. He hadn't been able to find the right way, though, and now he was sitting outside with Brendon after everyone else had retired to bed, listening to the soft sounds of the steam-clock resolutely counting the minutes between this hour and the next.

"You do not need to thank me," Brendon said, ducking his head. "You have done so much for me, offering me your home -" He pulled his coat tighter around him. "It was the very least I could do."

Spencer shook his head. "I mean it," he said, softly. "The clock is beautiful. I wish I could think of some way to thank you that would show how much I appreciated it."

Brendon swallowed, and Spencer watched his throat work as he tried to think of something to say. "I would do anything for you," Brendon admitted, after a minute. He didn't look at Spencer, and instead he kept staring straight ahead at the steam-clock. "I wanted you to know that."

Spencer's heart was beating so hard he could barely breathe. When he looked down, he could make out Brendon's hand on the bench between them. He swallowed, trying so very hard to tell himself he was doing the right thing, and then he covered Brendon's hand with his own.

Brendon looked at him, wide-eyed and startled. "Spencer -" he said, but Spencer just ignored him and curled his fingers around Brendon's.

"I would do anything for you, too" Spencer said. His mouth was so very dry. "Anything, do you understand?"

"There is no one I care for so much as you," Brendon said, steadily, after a minute. "Nobody."

"I feel the same," Spencer admitted. He tried not to move, aware how fragile this moment was, how tiny and important and life-changing.

Brendon squeezed Spencer's hand, and Spencer let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"I will never leave you," Brendon said, without looking at him. "I couldn't."

"I could not be without you either," Spencer said. He lifted Brendon's hand to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to Brendon's fingers. He heard Brendon's strangled intake of breath, but Brendon didn't pull away. Spencer closed his eyes, the wave of relief washing over him so great he could barely breathe. Brendon touched at Spencer's chin with the tips of his fingers, and then he cupped Spencer's cheek in his palm.

Spencer concentrated on remembering how to breathe. He'd never been touched like this, not by anyone, not ever. He covered Brendon's hand with his own, and let out a breath.

They stayed like that a long minute, before the clock started to chime the half-hour. Spencer jumped, and Brendon, startled, dropped his hand.

"It is getting cold," Spencer said, awkwardly.

"Oh, yes," Brendon said, jumping to his feet. "You will be wanting to get to bed, I'm sure."

"No -" Spencer caught Brendon's sleeve in his fingertips. "Don't go."

Brendon stopped. The air smelled like coal fires, and there was the crackle of flame from the little fire powering the steam-clock.

"We could go inside, and have tea," Spencer said. "Or chocolate." He hesitated, feeling stupid as he admitted,. "I don't want today to end."

"Me neither," Brendon said, softly. "I never want time with you to end." He held his arm out for Spencer, and Spencer stood up, slipping his hand through the crook of Brendon's arm.

They went inside to where the fire was still burning in Spencer's study, and Brendon pulled back the drapes so they could still see the steam-clock through the window.

Spencer had taken to asking Cook to leave out a tea-kettle and a pot by the fire, so that he and Brendon could have warm drinks late at night without waking the staff. He leaned over the fire, hooking the kettle up so that it would hang low over the flames.

"There," he said. "Soon we will have tea -"

Brendon cupped Spencer's elbow in the palm of his hand. Spencer had not noticed him standing so close, and he swallowed down a breath as Brendon stepped closer.

"If I do not say this now," Brendon told him, "then I will lose my nerve and then I'll never say it."

Spencer didn't move. "What?" he said, softly.

Brendon's eyes were bright and clear, but his cheeks were flushed. "That I love you," he said. "That I think of you always, and that I am in love with you."

"I do not know what to say," Spencer said. His heart was hammering and he did not know how to act, or how to respond. He loved Brendon too, loved him more than anything, but he did not know if he could find the words to explain himself.

Brendon ducked his head. "You need not say anything," he said.

Spencer leaned in, and stroked Brendon's cheek with his thumb. He tilted Brendon's chin up, and let out a breath. "I have too much to say," he said. "So many words, Brendon, and I do not know how to put them together to tell you how I feel."

Brendon's eyes were bright. "Try," he said. "Please."

"I know only that I love you more than anything," he said. "That you are in my heart, and -" He did not know how to put what he was feeling in to words. "I believe I could show you," he said. "If you would let me."

Brendon tilted his chin up, just a little, and Spencer watched helplessly. He leaned in, so very slowly, and Brendon didn't move back, or step away. He stayed still, his cheeks flushed, his lips bitten red, and Spencer touched his mouth to Brendon's, just like that.

Brendon stayed still, just for a moment, and then he made a soft sound as he breathed out, and then he leaned in and kissed Spencer back. It was slow, and uncertain, and Spencer felt sure he had never been as happy in his whole life as he was in this moment, his kiss on Brendon's lips.

He stepped back, biting his lip, breathless and nervous and happier than ever. Brendon slid his hand into Spencer's, ducking his gaze to hide his smile.

Spencer couldn't help but see, though, and he smiled to himself, squeezing Brendon's hand in his.

The hedgehog, bored of the cherry cake crumbs on the desk by Spencer's tea-cup, nudged at the saucer, leaning in to lap at the water Brendon had left for him. When he was finished, he curled up on Brendon's handkerchief, and went to sleep.

  
  


  


  


The day of the first flight dawned bright and sunny, with barely a cloud in the sky. A light breeze from the west would prove fortuitous in ensuring they got the dirigible off the ground, Brendon told Spencer, breathlessly explaining to him as they ate breakfast how they couldn't have wished for better conditions.

Spencer's mother, seeming to pay no particular attention to just how close Brendon and Spencer were sitting, added more jam to her bread, and smiled to herself. "I am going to go away for a while," she said, dragging Spencer's attention away from the tiny piece of bread and jam that Brendon was cutting for William. "I have engaged the builders to come and work on the rooms upstairs overlooking the east terrace," she went on, ignoring Spencer's concerned protestations. The rooms of which she spoke were a guest suite, long left unused because they were so far removed from the rest of the house, separated from the other bedrooms by a long gallery housing a selection of aged pictures of Spencer's ancestors, "and I wish to be away whilst they prepare them for my return."

Spencer couldn't find words to voice his confusion. Next to him, Brendon looked equally bewildered. "Builders?" Spencer asked.

"Builders," she repeated. "I am moving bedrooms, Spencer, please keep up. It is high time that you moved into the master bedroom, and I will be more than happy with the rooms on the east corridor. I have missed the sun in the morning, Spencer, and I long for a better view." She continued buttering another slice of bread and jam, and Spencer wondered just how much exactly she was planning to eat for breakfast. "Anyway," she went on, "I was also thinking that it is high time Brendon moved out of a guest bedroom. He is living here permanently, is he not?" She didn't wait for an answer. "The builders are going to renovate the room next to the master bedroom. There will be rooms and a sitting room, and then there will be some space for the two of you to share."

Spencer's mouth dropped open.

"So," his mother went on. "I am going to stay with your sisters for a few weeks, as you both know I cannot abide building work. I have seen far too much of it, and it is not as if I require a reason to go and see my beautiful grand-son. I am going to speak to him of geometry, and read to him from my books, for Crystal tells me that he just does not sleep. The whole house is being kept awake by his howls, and I intend to put that right immediately. I imagine all the room moves will have gone on by the time I get back, wouldn't you think, Spencer?"

Spencer couldn't say anything, his mind still fixed on the very idea of the suite of rooms that his mother and father had shared being turned over to him and Brendon. For them to share together. He could not think of anything more perfect, and to have his mother suggest and engineer it, for her to give them both her blessing - - Spencer's throat felt thick and when he tried to speak, he could not think of a way to say thank you.

"Spencer?" his mother prompted. "The room moves."

"Yes," he managed, finally. He could not meet Brendon's eye, for fear that his happiness be too obvious, for fear that he not be able to keep his joy private. "Yes. We will be all moved by the time you return."

"Excellent," his mother said. "Pass the marmalade, please."

Under the table, Brendon curled his fingers in to Spencer's, just for a moment, and Spencer caught his gaze, unable to look away. Brendon's eyes were shining, his smile bright and infectious.

"You will stay," Spencer found himself asking, all in a rush for he could hear his sisters on the stair, and the rumble of Brendon's grandfather's baritone outside in the hall. "You will stay, Brendon, and make Combe Russet your home?"

"With you," Brendon said, biting his lip. "I will make my home with you."

"Well, that's settled then," Spencer's mother said placidly, as the doors opened to admit Brendon's grandfather and Spencer's sisters and their husbands. Jacqueline had her hand tucked into Mr. Urie's arm, and she was telling him loudly about a family of ducklings that had made her pond their home.

"Yes," Spencer said, softly, and he reached across, stopping Brendon from feeding his hedgehog tiny squares of bread and jam. He took Brendon's hand in his, and Spencer couldn't hide his happiness any longer. The hedgehog nosed at their entwined fingers for a moment before turning his attention back to his own breakfast. "It is."

Brendon squeezed his hand, and amid a chorus of good mornings, Spencer's mother caught Spencer's eye, and smiled.

  


"Come on," Brendon said, tugging Spencer on board the dirigible.

The deck was a hive of activity, with Brendon's assistants performing final check after final check on all the ropes and pulleys and pipes and gauges. The steam-engine was already letting off steam, the valves whistling, the coal-men shovelling in more and more fuel as the fire in the engine belly burned brighter and hotter with every passing minute. Perspiration beaded across Spencer's forehead, for even in the mild late summer morning, the deck was steaming hot and sweaty with the press of bodies and the heat of the engine.

The ropes hitching the dirigible to the ground were starting to grow taut as the engine grew more powerful. The sight of the wheels and cogs turning and the men shovelling and the gauges flickering on the vast wall of pressure monitors was almost too exciting to be borne, and Spencer could not let go of Brendon's hand as he tried to take everything in.

The crew – an excitable, grimy selection of assistants and agents, covered in oil and coal stains and wearing identical, filthy grins – were already finishing up, reporting back to Zack, who was standing beside Brendon with a stack of papers attached to a board. He was marking checks off, and Spencer could see that the list of things still left to do was growing shorter and shorter with every passing moment.

Excitement thrummed beneath his skin, an intoxicating mix of anticipation and elation sweeping through him as he took in the deck before him. At the bow stood Ausfield, looking decidedly cheerful and listening with great interest to the conversation of Spencer's mother – complete with coal dust down her sleeve – and Brendon's grandfather. At the stern was the great steam-engine with its wall of dials and gauges.

"How long can we be up in the air for?" he asked, trying to see the papers that Brendon was checking, the crabbed, tiny notes and the pages of drawings and ink-smudged pictures.

"About seventy-five minutes," Brendon said. "Normally double or triple that, if this flight goes according to plan."

"When we take Calais," Ausfield boomed, striding across the deck and clapping an arm around Spencer's shoulder, "then we can have a whole fleet of dirigibles stationed there, and we can take Paris, just like that."

"Just like that," Spencer echoed, a little feebly. Even now, standing on the very deck of the flying-craft, with take-off just minutes away and the deck emptying itself of all extra crew and agents and assistants, it still had an air of improbability about it, a mythic, fairy-story air that Spencer could not shift, even as he felt the ropes tighten and the dirigible take its first leap into the air. They were hovering not more than a foot above the ground, the ropes taut and shivering against the pressure from the steam-engine.

"Just like that," Ausfield agreed.

Brendon was darting across the deck, checking first one thing, then another. Zack cleared the final bystanders off the deck and down the gangplank and back onto solid, Combe Russet land. He beckoned Jacqueline over and deposited a mewing, disgruntled orange cat into her arms. Jasmine followed Zack everywhere, and had had to be removed five times already from the deck of the ship. She looked decidedly grumpy, and Spencer could not help laughing at her squashed, ugly face as Jacqueline hugged her tightly, especially as he could see the hedgehog peeping out from inside of Brendon's waistcoat, clearly just having woken up, ready to experience his first flight.

Brendon caught Spencer's eye for a moment, and then ducked his head, stroking at William's nose before his attention was captured by his ship again.

Then the ropes tethering the dirigible to the ground were untied, and Spencer kept watching the ground as the ship started to lift off. There was the strangest jumping sensation in the pit of his stomach, a curling, twisting excitement that he couldn't hold back, an odd feeling of having left his stomach behind as they started to rise. He laughed, and then suddenly Brendon was at his side, leaning over the edge of the deck as they rose higher and higher up into the air.

"We're _flying_ ," Spencer said, unable to believe it. The sounds of the people left cheering on the ground were getting less and less loud, and Spencer could see his house from above, the stretch of red roof as Combe Russet lay before him, beneath him, below him. Spencer could only watch dazedly as the people started to get smaller and smaller as the dirigible flew higher and higher, until they were nothing more than specks on the ground, far behind them as they flew on.

"We did it," Brendon said dazedly. Around him, the crew were working hard, the ground getting further and further away from them. Spencer's mother was helping Brendon's grandfather on with his scarf, and the crew were wrapping up warmly as they flew higher and the air grew cooler. The engine chugged happily, the steam leaving a grey trail behind them as they flew over the countryside, the fields beneath their feet looking more and more like a toy farm the higher they flew.

"You did," Spencer breathed, and then, because he could, because Brendon was _his_ , he pulled Brendon closer, and into a tight hug. "You _did_ ," he said again, and when Brendon laughed, Spencer wanted to keep holding on, forever and ever.

"I'm so proud of you," he said, as softly as he could over the noise of the engine, and Brendon bit his lip, failing to bite back a wide smile.

"I couldn't have done it without you," Brendon told him, and this wasn't how Spencer had imagined this moment. He wasn't sure he ever _had_ imagined this moment, but then he'd never imagined that he could feel this way, either, or that the feeling could be reciprocated. Or that flying-craft would ever be anything other than a story-book tale. It still seemed almost like a dream, albeit a dream that came complete with coal fires and noise and heat and _people_.

Spencer couldn't help himself. "Marry me," he said, breathlessly, his heart beating loud enough to drown the very noise of the steam-engine. "Brendon, do me the honour of becoming my husband."

Brendon stared at him, wide-eyed. "The honour would be all mine," he said, after what seemed like forever to Spencer. "It would be all mine. I could not be prouder -" his eyes shone, and he took a moment before he spoke again, his hands tight on Spencer's arms. "I could not –" he stopped, swallowing hard. "Yes," he said. "Yes, please."

Spencer could not speak. He tried, but he could not think of words. It was as if they were all suddenly gone from his head, and there was nothing left but this moment. He struggled to think of something to say, something that would express everything that he wanted to say. "Is that a – are you accepting?" he asked, for he wished to make certain, in case he had heard wrong, or made up Brendon's answer in his head. He could see his mother watching them both, her hand on Brendon's grandfather's arm. She was smiling, and Brendon's grandfather, too.

Brendon lifted Spencer's hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to Spencer's fingertips. "Yes," he said. "I accept, if you will accept me."

Spencer could barely think of what to do with himself. He felt like he was made up entirely of happiness, if that were possible. His joy seemed to be reflected in Brendon's face, and he smiled without being able to help himself, his laughter spilling out, Brendon echoing him a moment later. His mother clapped, and Spencer blushed, but he did not care. He kept a firm hold of Brendon's hand, and could not look away.

"Come on," Brendon said, delightedly. His hedgehog peeped his nose out of Brendon's coat, partially hidden by the thick wool of Brendon's scarf. Spencer touched at the hedgehog's nose with a finger, and William sniffed it before curling back up inside Brendon's coat. "Let me show you how it all works."

"I _know_ how it works," Spencer protested, but he laughed, unable to help himself, and let himself be dragged across the deck to the steam-engine.

"Let me tell you again," Brendon said happily, and Spencer thought, _yes, anything_ , and leaned in to listen.

 

 **END.**


End file.
